
THE LIBRARY 

OF 

THE UNIVERSITY 
OF CALIFORNIA 

LOS ANGELES 



GIFT 

Prom the library of 

Henry Goldman, C.E. Ph.D 
1886-197? 



SELECTIONS 



THE PEOSE AKD POETEY 



ALFRED DEMUSSET. 




\vji. , 

- 



NEW YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
: &fbersfSe 

1870. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 

HOED AND HOUGHTON, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New 
York. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED BT H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



PEEFACE. 



PROBABLY no one ever tried to translate anything, 
however short and simple, without throwing down his 
pen in utter despair before he came to the end. 
Whatever difficulties are usually met with in such 
essays, were found tenfold strong in the present in- 
stance. When the task was accomplished, the ques- 
tions arose : Will not this author be incomprehensible 
to all not only unfamiliar with his native language, 
but with his native country ? and will not all who are 
likely to understand him, know him already ? Owing 
to such considerations, these translations, made long 
ago, remained unpublished ; why offer an English 
version of De Musset to those who could read him 
in French ? An article, however, which appeared 
less than a year ago in an English review, proved at 
least that all who read De Musset do not appreciate 



iv PREFACE. 

him ; and this, and the desire one always feels to 
share intellectual enjoyment with others, combined 
with some other reasons, finally determined their pub- 
lication. Some of the finest poems have not even 
been attempted, and imperfect as all the translations, 
prose and verse, may seem, even to a careless reader, 
how infinitely far they fall short of the spirit, grace, 
and beauty of the original, one who has made the en- 
deavor to put them into English alone can judge. 
But no water is ever brought away from the spring 
perfectly fresh. 

There must necessarily be but few out of France 
who can enjoy De Musset greatly, but to them, wher- 
ever they may be, these poor attempts are dedicated. 

S. B. W. 
GEKMASTOWN, Pa., Dec., 1869. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD 1 

Mrai PINSON 37 

FANTASIO 81 

No TRIFLING WITH LOVB 131 

" FOR BOTH WERE FAITHS, AND BOTH ARE GONE " . . 199 

ON THREE STEPS OF ROSE-COLORED MARBLE . . 202 

ON THE DEATH OF MALIBRAN 210 

RECOLLECTION 212 

ADVICE TO A GAY LADY 215 

A PORTRAIT 219 

VERGISS MEIN NICHT 221 

PALE STAR OF EVEN ........ 223 

A LAST WORD 225 



TALES. 



THE 

STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

How glorious but sad it is to be an exceptional 
blackbird ! I am not a fabulous bird, for Mr. Buf- 
fon has described me, but alas I am extremely rare, 
and very difficult to find ; would to heaven that I 
were impossible. 

My father and mother were two good people who 
lived for a number of years in the shades of a secluded 
old garden in the Marais. It was a model household : 
my mother laid her eggs regularly three times a year 
in a thick thorn-bush, and hatched them as she dozed 
with patriarchal fidelity, while my father, who, notwith- 
standing his great age, was exceedingly spruce and 
brisk, hopped about her all day long, bringing her fine 
insects, which he caught delicately by the tip of the 
tail in order not to disgust his wife ; and at night-fall, 
if the weather was fine, he never failed to regale her 
with a serenade which delighted the whole neighbor- 
hood. No quarrel, not the smallest cloud, had ever 
troubled this tender union. 

I had scarcely come into the world, when, for the 
first time in his life, my father began to show ill tem- 
l 



2 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

per. Although as yet I was only a doubtful gray, he 
could not detect in me either the color or shape of 
his numerous progeny. 

" What a dirty child," he would sometimes say, 
with an oblique glance. " The imp^ must be inces- 
santly poking in rubbish and dirt to be so ugly and 
smutty." 

" La ! my dear," my mother would reply, as she 
sat rolled up like a ball in an old porringer where 
she had made her nest, " don't you know all that be- 
longs to his age ? Were you not a charming good- 
for-naught yourself in your day ? Let our chick alone 
until he is grown up and you shall see how handsome 
he will be ; he is one of the finest I have ever hatched." 

But though my mother spoke up for me she did not 
deceive herself; she saw my fatal plumage put forth 
and considered it a monstrosity ; but, like many other 
mothers, she was drawn to her offspring by the very 
fact of Nature's unkindness, as if the fault were her 
own, or as though trying to make amends, in advance, 
for her child's hard fate. 

When the time came for my first moulting, my 
father became pensive and watched me closely. 
While my feathers were falling out, he treated me 
with some kindness, and even brought me bird-feed 
when he saw me almost naked, shivering in a corner ; 
but from the moment that my poor half-frozen wings 
began to be covered with down again, as each white 
feather appeared, he fell into such a rage that I was 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 3 

afraid he would strip me outright. Alas ! I had no 
mirror ; I did not understand the cause of his fury, and 
asked myself why the best of fathers should be so 
barbarous to me. 

One day a ray of sunshine, and my growing coat 
having made me light-hearted despite myself, I was 
fluttering about in a leafy alley, and by ill luck I be- 
gan to sing. At the first note my father shot into the 
air like a rocket. 

" What do I hear ? " he cried. " Is that the way a 
blackbird whistles ? Is that the way I whistle ? Is that 
whistling at all ? " and alighting near my mother, he 
cried, with a terrible countenance : " Wretched fe- 
male, who has been laying in your nest ? " 

At those words my mother, outraged, flew from her 
porringer, hurting one of her claws ; she strove to 
speak, but was choked by sobs and fell to the ground 
almost swooning. Seeing her at the point of death, I 
threw myself, terrified and trembling, at my father's 
feet 

" Oh my father ! " I cried, " if I am ill-feathered and 
whistle out of tune, let not my mother be the victim. 
Is it her fault that nature has refused me a voice like 
yours ? Is it her fault I have not your beautiful yellow 
beak and black coat which make you look for all the 
world like an undertaker eating an omelette ? If 
Heaven has made me a monster and some one must 
suffer for it, let it be me alone ! " 

" That is not to the purpose," said my father. 



4 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

" What is the meaning of the absurd way in which 
you were whistling ? Who taught you to whistle in that 
manner, contrary to all rule and custom ? " 

" Alas, sir ! " I replied humbly, " I whistled as well 
as I could, feeling gay because it is so fine, and per- 
haps because I have eaten too many flies." 

"That is not the way we whistle in my family," 
returned my father, fairly beside himself. " We have 
been whistling from father to son for centuries, and I'd 
have you know that when my voice is heard in the 
evening, an old gentleman on the first floor and a 
grisette in the garret open their windows to listen. 
Is it not enough to have to see the frightful color of 
your ridiculous feathers, which give you the look of a 
powdered merry-andrew at a fair ? If I were not 
the most peaceable of blackbirds, I should have 
plucked you, a hundred times, as clean as a chicken 
ready for roasting ! " 

" Well then ! " I cried, indignant at my father's 
injustice : " if it be so, sir, let this end it ! I will with- 
draw from your presence : I will relieve your eyes of 
the sight of this unfortunate white tail, by which you 
tweak me from morning till night. I will go, sir, I 
will flee : as my mother lays three times a year, other 
children will console you : I will go far hence to hide 
my misery, and perhaps," I added sobbing, " perhaps 
I may find in a neighbor's kitchen-garden, or in the 
gutter of some roof, a few earth-worms or spiders to 
sustain my wretched existence." 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 5 

" Very well," replied my father, not the least moved 
by this speech ; " only let me see no more of you. 
You are not my son, you are not a blackbird at all." 

" And what am I then, sir, if I may ask ? " 

" I know nothing about that ; but you are no black- 
bird." 

And with these paralyzing words, my father slowly 
withdrew. 

My mother got up painfully, and hopped limping 
away, to shed the rest of her tears in her porringer. 

As for me, bewildered and forlorn, I took wing as 
well as I could, and perched, as I had declared I 
should do, upon the spout of a neighboring roof. 

My father had the inhumanity to leave me in this 
mortifying position for several days. Notwithstand- 
ing his violence, however, he had a good heart, and by 
the sidelong glances he stole at me, I saw well enough 
that he would have been glad to pardon me and call 
me back. Still more so my mother, who continually 
raised eyes full of tenderness toward me, and went 
so far sometimes as to invite me by a little plaintive 
chirp ; but in spite of themselves, my horrible white 
plumage inspired them with a repugnance and fear 
for which I saw too well there was no help. 

" I am not a blackbird," I repeated to myself, and 
indeed, as I washed myself in the morning, and saw 
my reflection in the water of the spout, I perceived 
only too clearly how little I looked like my family. 
" Oh Heaven," I groaned aloud, " teach me what I am." 



6 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

One night it rained in torrents, and I was about to 
fall asleep, worn out with hunger and grief, when I 
saw a bird alight near me, more draggled, paler, and 
thinner than I thought a bird could be. He was 
nearly my own color, as well as I could judge through 
the rain with which we were both drenched ; he had 
barely enough feathers to cover a sparrow, and yet he 
was larger than I. He struck me at first as positively 
indigent looking, but notwithstanding the storm which 
beat upon his bald forehead, he had an air of nobility 
which attracted me. I modestly made him a low bow, 
to which he responded by a peck, which nearly 
knocked me from the roof. 

Seeing that I was about to withdraw, much morti- 
fied, without attempting to pay him in his own coin, 
he inquired, 

" Who are you ? " in a voice as hoarse as his head 
was bald. 

" Alas, my lord," I replied, dreading another thrust, 
" I cannot tell. I once thought I was a blackbird, but 
I have been convinced that I am nothing of the sort." 

The oddness of my reply and my tone of sincerity, 
interested him. He drew nearer and made me tell 
him my story, which I did with all the melancholy 
and meekness befitting my position and the terrible 
weather. 

" If you were a carrier-pigeon like me," he said, after 
hearing me out, " the trifles you are grieving over 
would not distress you for a moment. We travel ' 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 7 

that is our existence: we have our love affairs too, 
but 1 do not know who my father was. To cleave 
the air, to traverse space, to see mountains and plains 
at our feet, to breathe the very azure of the skies and 
not the miasmas of earth, to fly like an arrow to the 
mark, which we never miss, such is our life and our 
happiness. I can go further in one day than a man 
in ten." 

" Upon my word, sir," said I, a little emboldened, 
" you are a Bohemian bird." 

" What matter of that? " he answered. " I have no 
country : I care for but three things in life ; my 
journeys, my wife, and my little ones. Wherever my 
wife is, there is my country." 

" But what is that hanging from your neck ? It 
looks like a crumpled curl-paper." 

" Those are papers of importance," he replied, puff- 
ing himself up, " I am on my way to Brussels, carrying 

a piece of news to the celebrated banker, 

which will lower the rate of interest two per cent." 

" Good heavens ! " I exclaimed, " yours is a happy 
life. I feel sure that Brussels is a town well worth 
seeing. Couldn't you take me with you ? as I am not 
a blackbird, perhaps I am a carrier-pigeon." 

" If you were," he replied, " you would have re- 
turned the peck I gave you a little while ago." 

" Oh, very well, sir, I will return it now ; we won't 
quarrel about such a trifle. See, the day is breaking 
and the storm begins to subside. For pity's sake let 



8 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

me go with you ! I am lost, I have nothing left in this 
world ; if you refuse, there is nothing for me but to 
drown myself in this spout." 

" Very well, let us be off; follow me, if you can." 

I turned a last look towards the garden where my 
mother was sleeping ; a tear stole from my eye, but 
the wind and rain swept it away ; 1 spread my wings 
and set forth. 

My wings, as I have said, were not yet very strong. 
While my guide was going like the wind, I was pant- 
ing on beside him. I held out for some time, but at 
length was seized with such violent dizziness that I 
was on the point of falling. 

" Have we much further to go ? " I asked, in a 
feeble voice. 

" No," he answered : " we are at Bourget, we have 
only sixty leagues more." 

I tried to take courage, not wishing to seem faint- 
hearted, and flew on for another quarter of an hour, 
but at last I was spent. 

" Sir," I gasped again, " couldn't we stop a minute ? 
I am horribly thirsty, and if we could but perch upon 
a tree " 

" Go to the devil, you are nothing but a blackbird," 
answered the pigeon in disgust ; and he went on his 
way in a rage, without deigning to turn his head. As 
for me, I dropped stupefied and blinded into a corn- 
field. 

I do not know how long my fainting fit lasted ; 



THE STOKY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 9 

when I came to my senses my first thought was the 
parting speech of the pigeon : " You are nothing but 
a blackbird," quoth he. 

" Oh my dear parents ! " methought, " then you 
were mistaken after all ! I will return to you ; you 
will acknowledge me as your true and lawful child, 
and restore me to my place in that snug little heap 
of leaves under my mother's porringer ! " 

I tried to rise, but the fatigue of the journey and 
the pain of my fall had paralyzed my limbs; I had 
hardly got upon my feet when my weakness returned, 
and I fell back upon my side. 

The awful thought of death was coming upon me, 
when I saw two charming creatures approaching on 
tip-toe, through the poppies and blue-bottles. One 
was a little magpie, very prettily marked and ex- 
tremely coquettish ; the other, a rose-colored turtle- 
dove. The turtle paused at some distance, with an air 
of modest compassion ; but the magpie came nearer, 
hopping along in the prettiest way imaginable. 

" Bless me ! my poor child," she exclaimed in a 
gay, silvery voice, " what are you doing there ? " 

" Alas, maJame la marquise," I replied, for I took her 
for a marchioness at least, " I am a poor devil of a 
traveller, who has been left behind by his postillion, 
and I am dying of hunger." 

" Holy Virgin ! Is it possible ! " she returned, and 
immediately began to fly hither and thither among the 
bushes, coming and going in every direction, bringing 



10 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

a quantity of berries and fruit, of which she made a 
little heap near me, and continuing her questions the 
whole time. 

" But who are you ? where do you come from ? what 
an extraordinary accident! Where were you going? 
travelling by yourself, too, at your age, for I see you 
are but just over your first moulting ! What are your 
parents about ? where do they live ? how could they let 
you go about in such a condition ? Why, it is enough 
to make one's feathers stand on end ! " 

While she was talking I had raised myself a little 
on one side and was eating with great appetite ; the 
dove remained motionless, gazing at me with eyes full 
of pity. She noticed that I turned my head languidly, 
and guessed that I was thirsty. A rain-drop that 
had fallen during the night, was hanging on a spray 
of chickweed ; she shyly took it up in her beak and 
brought it to me quite fresh. Certainly, had I not 
been so ill, a lady of such reserve would never have 
gone so far. 

I did not quite know the meaning of love, but my 
heart beat violently ; though divided between two emo- 
tions, I was conscious of an inexplicable charm. My 
caterer was so gay, my cup-bearer so gentle and kind, 
that I would fain have breakfasted in this way to all 
eternity. Unfortunately everything has a limit, even 
the appetite of a convalescent. The repast being ended, 
and my strength restored, I satisfied the little magpie's 
curiosity, and told her my misfortunes as frankly as 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 11 

I had done to the pigeon the evening before. The 
magpie listened to me with more attention than she 
had seemed capable of, and the dove betrayed her 
exquisite sensibility in the most touching way. But 
when I came to the grand cause of my unhappiness, 
my ignorance as to who or what I was 

" Are you in earnest ? " cried the magpie. " You a 
blackbird ? you a pigeon ? Nonsense, you are a mag- 
pie, my dear child, if ever there was one, and a very 
pretty magpie," she added, giving me a little blow with 
her wing, as though she were tapping me with her fan. 

" But, madame la marquise," I answered, " it strikes 
me that for a magpie my color begging your par- 
don" 

" A Russian magpie, my dear ; you are a Russian pie. 
Don't you know that they are white ? Poor boy, what 
innocence ! " 

" But," I returned, " how can I be a Russian magpie 
since I was born in an old porringer in the heart of the 
Marais ? " 

" Ah ! the babe ! You date from the invasion, my 
dear; do you suppose that you are the only one ? 
Trust yourself with me and come along. I will take 
you where you shall see some of the finest things the 
world contains." 

" And where is that, madam ? " 

"To my green palace, my pet; you shall see the 
life we lead there. Before you have been a magpie 
for a quarter of an hour you will not hear of being any- 



12 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

thing else. There are about a hundred of us, not like 
those big, common magpies who beg on the highways ; 
toe are all high-born and well-bred, slender, nimble, 
and but a span long. We all have exactly seven black 
marks and five white ones, neither more nor less ; it is 
invariable with us and we despise everybody else. It 
is true you have not the black marks, but your being a 
Russian will suffice to gain you admission. Our life con- 
sists of two things, chattering and dressing ourselves ; 
from morning until noon we make ourselves smart, 
from noon until evening we gossip. We each inhabit a 
tree, the highest and oldest we can find. In the midst 
of the forest towers an immense oak, but alas ! it is un- 
inhabited. It was the abode of our late King Pius 
the Tenth ; l we often make pilgrimages thither with 
many sighs, but except for this little grief we pass the 
time wonderfully well. Our wives are not prudes, and 
our husbands are not jealous, but our pleasures are 
pure and refined, because our hearts are as noble as 
our tongues are lively and free. Our pride is unbound- 
ed ; and if by chance a jay or any other upstart in- 
trudes among us, we pluck him mercilessly ; neverthe- 
less we are the kindest hearted people in the world, 
and the finches, tomtits, and swallows who live in our 
thickets, find us always ready to feed or protect them. 
There is not a spot on earth where there is more 
chit-chat and less scandal. Pious old pies who tell 
their beads all day long are not wanting among us, 
1 A pun in the original, Pie X. 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 13 

but the airiest of our young beauties may approach 
the strictest of our dowagers without fear of a peck. 
In short, we live for pleasure, honor, gossip, glory, and 
dress." 

' All this is delightful, madam," I replied, " and I 
should be certainly very ungallant not to obey the com- 
mand of a lady of your distinction. But before I have 
the honor of following you, pray permit me to say one 
word to this kind young lady. Mademoiselle" I con- 
tinued, addressing the dove, u be candid with me, I en- 
treat : do you really think that I am a Russian pie ? " 

At this question the turtle-dove let her head droop, 
and turned pale pink, like Lolotte's ribbons. 

" But, monsieur" she said ; " I do not know that I 
ought " 

" In heaven's name, speak, mademoiselle ! I have not 
a thought which could offend you ; quite the contrary. 
You are both so lovely that I here vow to offer my 
heart and claw to whichever of you will accept them, 
the moment that I know whether I am a magpie or 
something else, for when I look at you," I added 
in rather a lower tone to the young lady, " I am con- 
scious of something of the turtle-dove, which agitates 
me strangely." 

" Why really," replied the dove, blushing still more 
deeply, " I do not know whether it may not be only 
the effect of the sun shining upon you through those 
poppies, but your plumage does seem to have a slight 
tinge " She could not venture to say more. 



14 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

" What a dilemma ! " I exclaimed. " How shall I 
know what to do ? How can I give my heart to either 
of you when it is so cruelly divided ? Oh Socrates ! 
what an admirable precept you gave us, but how hard 
a one to follow, when you said, ' Know thyself.' " 

J had not tried my voice since the day that an un- 
lucky song had irritated my father to such a degree. 
At this juncture it occurred to me to make use of it, 
as a means of discovering the truth. 

",By Jove!" thought I, "as my respected father 
turned me out of the house on my first verse, the 
second cannot fail to produce an effect of some sort 
on these ladies ! " Having begun by a polite bow, as 
if to crave indulgence on account of my ducking, I 
began to chirp, then to warble, then to trill, and finally 
to sing at the top of my lungs, like a Spanish muleteer 
in the open air. 

As I sang, the little magpie withdrew further and 
further from me, with an air of surprise which changed 
to stupefaction, and gradually gave place to an ex- 
pression of alarm, combined with utter weariness : she 
circled round me like a cat round a bit of hot fat, 
which has just burned her, but which she is still long- 
ing to taste. Seeing the effect of my test, and wishing 
to push it to the utmost, the more bored the poor mar- 
chioness looked, the louder and longer I sang. She 
stood my melodious efforts for twenty-five minutes, 
and then, able to bear it no longer, flew away in great 
commotion and took refuge in her green palace 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 15 

As to the turtle-dove, she had been fast asleep almost 
from the first. 

" Wonderful effects of melody ! " thought I. " Oh 
Marais! Oh parental porringer! I am more deter- 
mined than ever to go back to you." 

Just as I was about to take flight, the turtle opened 
her eyes. 

"Adieu, charming and tedious stranger," she said ; 
" my name is Gourouli, do not forget me ! " 

" Beautiful Gourouli," I replied, " you are good, 
gentle, and lovely : I would fain live and die for you, 
but you are rose-colored : such happiness is not for 
me." 

The melancholy result of my strains saddened me 
still more. " Oh music ! song ! " I said to myself as I 
turned toward Paris, " how few souls there are who 
understand you ! " 

While sunk in these reflections, I bumped my head 
against that of a bird, who was flying in the opposite 
direction. The shock was so sudden and severe that 
we both fell upon the top of a tree, which, by good 
luck, happened to be at hand. After we had shaken 
ourselves a little, I looked at the new-comer, expect- 
ing a quarrel. I saw with surprise that he was white. 
His head indeed was a little larger than mine, and he 
had a sort of a crest upon his forehead which gave him 
a mock-heroic air, besides which he carried his tail 
very high, with great dignity. However, he did not 
appear in the least anxious for a fight. We addressed 



16 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

each other with extreme courtesy, and exchanged mu- 
tual apologies, after which we fell into conversation. 

I took the liberty of inquiring his name and coun- 
try. 

" I am surprised that you do not know me," he re- 
plied. " Are you not one of us ? " 

" To tell the truth, my dear sir," I answered, " I do 
not know who I am. Everybody asks me the same 
question and gives me the same answer ; it must be a 
practical joke." 

u It is you who jest," he returned. " You wear your 
plumage too well for me not to recognize one of us. 
You undoubtedly belong to that ancient and illustri- 
ous race called cacuota in Latin, kakatoes in the lan- 
guage of the learned, and in common parlance, the 
cockatoo." 

" By Jove ! monsieur, perhaps I do, and it would be 
a great privilege. But suppose for a moment that I 
do not, and deign to tell me whom I have the honor 
of addressing ? " 

" I am the great poet Kacatogan," replied the 
stranger. " I have made long voyages, arid pilgrim- 
ages, and weary peregrinations. I did not begin rhym- 
ing yesterday ; my muse has had many sorrows. I 
hummed under Louis XVI. and bawled for the Repub- 
lic ; I have sung the Empire in lofty strains, and dis- 
creetly warbled the praises of the Restoration. Even 
in these latter times I have made an effort not with- 
out difficulty to conform to the exactions of an age 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 17 

without taste ; I have scattered broadcast pointed epi- 
grams, sublime hymns, graceful dithyrambics, pious 
elegies, dishevelled dramas, beringletted novels, pow- 
dered vaudevilles, and bald tragedies. In short, I 
flatter myself that I have added some graceful gar- 
lands, some sombre battlements, and some ingenious 
arabesques, to the temple of the Muses. But what 
then ? I have grown old. Still I make verses vigor- 
ously, and just now when you gave me that bump on 
the forehead I was composing a poem which would not 
have been less than six pages long. But if I can be 
of any use to you I am entirely at your service." 

" Really, my dear sir," I replied, " you can, for I am 
in a grand poetical difficulty at this very moment. I 
do not presume to call myself a poet, still less a great 
poet like you," I added, with a bow, " but Nature has 
given me a throat which itches when I feel happy or sad. 
I confess that I am utterly ignorant of all rules " 

" I have forgotten them," responded Kacotogan, 
grandly. " That is of no moment." 

" But," I resumed, " I am unfortunate in one re- 
spect; my voice produces the same effect upon my 
hearers as that of a certain Jean de Nivelle upon 
you remember " 

" I do," replied Kacotogan : " I have had this odd 
experience myself. The cause is unknown to me, 
but the effect is undeniable." 

" Well, as you seem to be the Nestor of poetry, 
may I ask if you know any help for the difficulty ? " 
2 



18 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

" No," said Kacotogan, " I have never been able to 
find one. It used to annoy me excessively, when I 
was younger, always to be hissed, but now a days I do 
not give it a thought. I am of opinion that this in- 
difference on the part of the public arises from their 
reading other authors ; it distracts them." 

" I agree with you, monsieur, but you will admit that 
it is hard for a well-meaning creature to put every- 
body to flight the moment he has an inspiration. 
Would you do me the favor to listen to me and tell 
me honestly what you think ? " 

" With pleasure," said Kacotogan ; " I am all ears." 

I began to sing at once, and had the satisfaction of 
seeing that Kacotogan neither flew away nor fell asleep. 
He looked at me fixedly, and from time to time in- 
clined his head with an air of approbation, and made 
a sort of flattering murmur. But I soon perceived 
that he was not listening, and that he was thinking of 
his own poem. Taking advantage of a moment when 
I stopped to breathe, he interrupted me. 

" I have found my rhyme ! " he exclaimed, smiling 
and nodding : " it is the sixty-thousand-seven-hundred- 
and-fourteenth which has issued from this brain ! 
And they dare to say I am growing old ! I will read 
that to my kind friends ; yes, I will read it to them, 
and we shall see what they hare to say ! " 

So saying, he took wing and disappeared, not even 
seeming to recollect my existence. 

Solitary and disappointed, I saw nothing for me to 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 19 

do but to make the best of my way back to Paris 
by the remaining daylight. Unfortunately, I did not 
know the way. My journey with the pigeon had been 
too far from pleasant to leave me a distinct recol- 
lection of the route, so that, instead of going straight 
on, I turned to the left, near Bourget, and being over- 
taken by night was obliged to seek a lodging in the 
woods of Morfontaine. 

Everybody was going to bed when I arrived. The 
magpies and jays, who, as all the world knows, are the 
worst sleepers on earth, were wrangling on every side ; 
the sparrows chirped in the bushes as they walked 
over each other ; two herons paced gravely along the 
edge of the water in a meditative attitude upon their 
long stilts, the Georges Dandins of the place, waiting 
patiently for their wives. Enormous crows rested heav- 
ily on the highest tree-tops, sleepily droning out their 
evening prayer. Lower down, amorous tomtits pursued 
each other through the thicket ; while a blowzy wood- 
pecker was pushing her family from behind to make 
them go into a hollow tree. Phalanxes of hedge-spar- 
rows came in from the fields, dancing in the air like 
puffs of smoke, and alighting upon the bushes, which 
they covered in a swarm ; linnets, larks, and robins, 
hung along the bare branches like crystals on a chan- 
delier. The woods rang with voices calling " Come, 
wife! Come, daughter! Come, my beauty! This 
way, my darling ! Here I am, my dear ! Good-night, 
my love ! Farewell, friends ! Go to sleep, children ! " 



20 THE STOKY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

What a night's lodging for a bachelor! I was 
tempted to join some birds of my own size and entreat 
their hospitality. "All birds are gray by night," 
thought I : " besides what harm can there be in roost- 
ing decorously near some of them ? " 

I went first towards a ditch where some starlings 
had collected. They were making their toilette for 
the night with remarkable care, and I noticed that 
most of them had gilded wings and varnished claws. 
They were the dandies of the forest, pretty good fel- 
lows, but they did not honor me with the slightest at- 
tention. Their conversation, however, was so frothy; 
they recounted their love-affairs and affairs of honor 
with so much self-complacency, and nudged each other 
to such a degree, that I found it impossible to remain 
there. 

I perched next upon a branch along which half a 
dozen birds of different kinds had strung themselves. 
I modestly took the lowest place, at the very end of 
the bough, hoping to be tolerated. Unluckily, my next 
neighbor was an old dove, as dry as a rusty weather- 
cock. As I approached, she was absorbed by the small 
remnant of feathers which covered her bones, and was 
pretending to plume herself; but far too much afraid 
of losing a single one, she merely reviewed them all 
to be sure that she had her full number. I scarcely 
brushed her with the tip of my wing, but she drew 
herself up majestically. 

" What are you about ? " she inquired, pursing up 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 21 

her beak with Britannic prudery. And giving me a 
great shove, she knocked me down with a vigor worthy 
of a porter. I fell into a tuft of heath where a fat 
quail was asleep. My own mother in her porringer 
had not an air of more perfect beatitude : she 'was so 
plump and puffy, comfortably seated on her double 
chin, that she might have been mistaken for a game 
pie, with all the crust eaten off. I gently slipped close 
to her. " She will not wake," I thought to myself, 
" and at any rate such a good, fat, motherly body can- 
not be very cross." Nor was she ; she half opened her 
eyes and said, with a slight sigh, 

" You make me uncomfortable, my little fellow ; do 
go away." 

At the same instant I heard myself called : some 
thrushes on a bush were making signs to me to come 
up to them. " Here are some kind souls at last," 
thought I. They made room for me, laughing like 
mad creatures, and I slid into their feathery group as 
deftly as a love-letter into a muff. But I soon per- 
ceived that these ladies had eaten more grapes than 
were good for them ; they could scarcely balance 
themselves on the branches, and their broad jokes, 
shouts of laughter, and coarse songs soon drove me 
away. 

I began to grow desperate, and was going to roost 
in a solitary nook, when a nightingale began to sing. 
There was universal silence. Oh ! how pure his voice 
was ! how sweet his very melancholy ! Far from dis- 



22 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

turbing the slumbers of others, his notes seemed to 
lull them. No one dreamed of stopping him, no one 
found fault with him for singing his song at such an 
hour ; his father did not beat him, nor his friends run 
away from him. 

" Then it is only I," I cried, " who arn forbidden 
to be happy ! Let me begone, let me fly from this 
cruel company ! Better to seek my way through the 
shades of night at the risk of being devoured by an 
owl, than be made desperate by the spectacle of 
others' happiness." 

With this resolve I resumed my journey and wan- 
dered about at random for a long while, but the first 
peep of day showed me the towers of Notre Dame. I 
reached it in a second and looked about for some time 
before I perceived our garden. I flew thither quick 
as lightning alas, it was deserted ! In vain I 
called my parents ; nobody answered. The tree my 
father frequented, the maternal bush, the beloved por- 
ringer, had all disappeared ; the axe had destroyed 
everything ; naught remained of the shrubbery where 
J was born but a bundle of fagots. 

At first I sought my parents in all the neighboring 
gardens, but it was labor lost : no doubt they had taken 
refuge in some distant quarter of the city, and I never 
heard of them again. 

Overcome with distress, I perched on the spout 
whither my father's anger had first driven me. There 
I passed long days and nights in bewailing my sad 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 23 

fate ; I could not sleep, I could hardly eat ; I was 
ready to die of sorrow. 

One day, while grieving as usual, I said aloud, " So 
I am not a blackbird, for ray father pecked me ; nor a 
pigeon, for I dropped on the road when I tried to go 
to Belgium ; nor a Pussian magpie, for the little mar- 
chioness stopped her ears when I opened my mouth ; 
nor a turtle-dove, since Gourouli, the gentle Gourouli, 
snored like a monk while I sang ; nor a parroquet, as 
Kacotogan would not condescend to listen to me ; 
nor, in short, any sort of bird whatever, as they all let 
me sleep by myself at Morfontaine. And yet I have 
feathers on my body ; here are my wings ; I am not a 
monster, witness Gourouli, and the little marchion- 
ess herself, who liked me well enough. What is 
the mysterious reason that these feathers, wings, and 
claws, do not make up a whole to which there is a 
name ? May I not be " 

I was about to continue my complaint when I was 
interrupted by two huckster-women quarreling in the 
street. 

" Go to the devil ! " said one of them to the other. 
" If you ever stop, I will make you a present of a 
white blackbird." 

" Gracious heavens ! " I exclaimed, " here it is at 
last. Oh Providence ! I am the son of a blackbird, 
and I am white ! I am a white blackbird ! " 

I must admit that this discovery modified my ideas 
extremely. Instead of bemoaning myself, I began to 



24 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

bridle and strut up and down the roof, gazing into 
space with the air of a victor. 

"It is no small matter to be a white blackbird," 
said I to myself. " Such a thing is not to be seen 
every day. I was simple enough to grieve because I 
could find nobody like me, why, mine is the lot of 
genius ! I meant to fly from the world, now I intend 
to astonish it. As I am that peerless bird whose 
very existence is denied by the ignorant, I ought to 
comport myself accordingly, and I will, like the 
Phoenix, despising all other fowls. T must buy By- 
ron's poems and the memoirs of Alfieri, which appro- 
priate food will fill me with fitting pride, over and 
above what God has given me. Yes, I will enhance, 
if possible, the glory of my birth : Nature has made 
me rare ; I will make myself mysterious. It shall be a 
favor and honor to behold me, and indeed," I added 
in a lower tone, " suppose I were to exhibit myself for 
money? Fie, unworthy thought ! I will write a poem 
like Kacotogan, not in one canto, but in twenty-four, 
as all great men do ; no, that is not enough, mine shall 
have forty-eight, with notes and an appendix ! The 
universe must learn that I exist ! In my verses 
I shall not fail to bewail my isolation, but in such a 
strain, that the happiest will envy me. As Heaven 
has refused me a mate I will say shocking things of 
the mates of others ; I will prove that everything is 
sour except my own grapes. The nightingales must 
take heed to themselves ; I will demonstrate as plain- 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 25 

ly as two and two are four, that their complaints 
sicken one, and that they deal in paltry artifices. I 
must go to Charpentier. 1 I must begin by making 
myself a tremendous literary position. I mean to 
have a court about me, composed not of newspaper 
writers only, but of real authors, even including liter- 
ary women. I will write a play for Mile. Rachel, and 
if she refuses to act it, I will proclaim by sound of 
trumpet that her talent is far inferior to that of some 
old provincial actress. 

" I will go to Venice, and in that fairy city hire the 
famous Mocenigo Palace, on the banks of the Grand 
Canal, at the rate of four pounds tenpence a day, and 
there I shall find inspiration in the memories the 
author of ' Lara ' must have left behind. From the 
depths of my solitude I will flood the world with a 
deluge of verses in the Spenserian stanza, rhyming 
alternately, whereby I shall soothe my lofty soul ; I 
will make all the tomtits sigh, the turtles coo, the 
woodpeckers weep, and the old screech-owls hoot. 
But as regards myself personally I will be inexora- 
ble, and inaccessible to love. 

" In vain shall they urge and entreat me to take 
pity on the unhappy beings who have been overcome 
by my sublime strophes : to all that, I will answer, 
' Fudge ! ' Oh excess of glory ! my manuscripts will sell 
for their weight in gold, my books will traverse oceans : 
fame and fortune will follow me everywhere ; but alone 
1 A well-known publisher. 



26 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

in a crowd, I shall appear indifferent to its applause : 
in short, I will be a perfect white blackbird, a regular 
eccentric genius, praised, petted, admired, and en- 
vied, but thoroughly sulky and intolerable." 

I took but six weeks to produce my first work. 
It was, as I had planned, a poem in forty-eight cantos. 
Of course there were some inaccuracies, owing to my 
prodigious fluency, but I trusted that the modern pub- 
liCi accustomed to the high literary standard of the 
weekly newspapers, would not condemn it on that 
account. 

I had a success worthy of myself; that is, unparal- 
leled. The subject of my work was none other than 
myself: therein I conformed to the fashion of the day. 
I recounted my past sufferings with winning self-con- 
fidence ; I admitted the reader to a thousand domes- 
tic details of the liveliest interest ; the description of 
my mother's porringer alone occupied not less than 
fourteen cantos. I enumerated its grooves, holes, protu- 
berances, cracks, splinters; nails, and stains ; its vari- 
ous hues and tints ; I described it within and without, 
the edges, the bottom, the sides, the flat surfaces, and 
the round surfaces. Passing to the contents, I depicted 
the blades of grass, straws, dry leaves, bits of wood, 
gravel, drops of water, dead flies, and beetles' claws. 
It was a masterly description. But you must not sup- 
pose that I gave it entire, there are shallow read- 
ers who would have skipped it ; I skillfully divided 
and interwove it witli the narrative in such wise that 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 27 

none of it might be lost ; so that at the most interest- 
ing and dramatic point of the story, fifteen pages of 
the porringer were suddenly introduced. This I be- 
lieve to be one of the great secrets of the art, and as 
I am not avaricious, whoever wishes to profit by it 
may do so. 

All Europe was thrown into excitement by the ap- 
pearance of my book : they devoured the revelations 
which I deigned to make public. How could it be 
otherwise ? I not only mentioned every fact of my 
personal history, but I gave the world a complete pic- 
ture of all the fancies which had passed through my 
brain since I was two months old. I even introduced, 
at one of the finest passages, an ode composed while 
I was in the shell. Meanwhile, of course, I did not 
neglect to touch upon the great subject which now 
occupies so many minds, the future of the human 
race. This problem had struck me as interesting, 
and in a leisure moment I dashed off a solution of 
it which was generally considered satisfactory. 

Every day came complimentary verses, letters of 
congratulation, and anonymous declarations of love. 
With regard to visits I adhered to the rule I had laid 
down ; my door was closed to every one. I could not 
refuse, however, to receive two strangers who pre- 
sented themselves as relations of mine. One was a 
blackbird from Senegal, the other from China. 

" Oh my dear sir," they exclaimed, smothering me 
in their embraces, " what a great bird you are ! how 



28 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

well you have described, in your immortal poem, the 
anguish of unrecognized genius. If we had not been 
already entirely misunderstood, we should have be- 
come so upon reading your book. How we sympa- 
thize with your griefs, with your sublime contempt for 
the vulgar herd ! We, too, know from experience the 
secret sorrows you have sung. Here are two sonnets 
we have composed together, and which we beg you to 
accept." 

"And here," added the Chinaman, "is a piece of 
music which my wife composed on a passage in your 
preface. It renders the meaning marvelously." 

"Gentlemen," I said, "as far as I can judge, you 
appear to be endowed with great hearts and luminous 
intellects. But permit me to ask one question? 
Whence proceeds your melancholy ? " 

" Why, only look at me ! " replied the native of Sen- 
egal. " My plumage, it is true, is handsome, and shows 
that rich green which glimmers on the duck, but my 
bill is too short and my feet too large ; and see how 
my tail disfigures me ! it is a third longer than my 
entire body. Is not that enough to drive me to the 
bad?" 

" And I," continued the Chinaman, " am still more 
unfortunate ; my friend's tail sweeps the ground, but 
the street-boys make fun of me, because I have none 
at all." 

" Gentlemen," I replied, " I pity you from my soul ; 
it is always annoying to have either too much or too 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 29 

little, no matter of what. But allow me to inform 
you that at the Jardin des Plantes there are a number 
of stuffed specimens like yourselves, who have been 
there very contentedly for a long time. Being discon- 
tented, no more makes a blackbird a genius than be- 
ing disreputable makes a literary woman a clever au- 
thoress. I am alone of my kind and I mourn over it : 
perhaps I ought not to do so, but it is my prerogative. 
I am white, gentlemen ; when you become so, we 
shall hear what you have to say." 

Notwithstanding my resolution, and the calm which 
I affected, I was not happy. My isolation, though glo- 
rious, was none the less painful, and I could not think, 
without dismay, of being compelled to pass my entire 
life in celibacy. The return of spring, especially, 
caused me mortal discomfort, and I was again relaps- 
ing into a state of melancholy when an unforeseen 
event decided my future. 

It is needless to say that my writings had crossed 
the Channel, and that the English had snapped them 
up with the greatest avidity. The English snap up 
everything except what they understand. One day I 
received a letter from London, signed by a young lady 
blackbird. 

" I have read your poem," she said, " and my ad- 
miration for it has determined me to offer myself to 
you. Heaven created us for one another ; I am like 
you, I am a white blackbird ! " 

My surprise and joy may easily be imagined. " A 



30 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

white blackbird ! " I said to myself; " can it be pos- 
sible ? Then I am no longer alone upon earth ! " I 
lost no time in replying to the fair unknown in a man- 
ner which proved how much her proposal delighted 
me. I urged her to come to Paris or to permit me to 
fly to her. She replied that she would rather come 
to me, because her relations bored her ; she was set- 
tling her affairs, and I should soon see her. 

A few days afterwards she arrived. Oh rapture ! she 
was the prettiest little blackbird in this world, and 
even whiter than myself. 

" Ah, mademoiselle! " I exclaimed, " or rather madame, 
for from this moment I consider you as my lawful 
spouse, how could so lovely a creature be in existence 
and her fame not reach me sooner ? Blessed be 
the sorrows I have known and the pecks my father 
gave me, since Heaven had such unlocked for conso- 
lation in store ! Until this day I deemed myself 
doomed to eternal solitude, and to tell the truth, it 
was a heavy burden to bear. But as I gaze on you, I 
feel that I possess all the qualities of the father of a 
family. Accept my hand without delay ; let us be 
married quietly in the English fashion and start at 
once for Switzerland." 

"That is not my idea," replied the young lady 
blackbird ; " I wish our wedding to be magnificent, 
and all the well-born blackbirds in France to be pres- 
ent People like ourselves owe it to our own dig- 
nity not to be married like cats on a roof. I have 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 31 

brought a supply of bank-notes. Send out the invi- 
tations, go to your tradespeople, and do not stint the 
refreshments." 

I yielded blindly to the wishes of my white black- 
bird. Our wedding was celebrated with overwhelming 
splendor ; ten thousand flies were eaten at it. "We re- 
ceived the nuptial benediction from the Rev. Father 
Cormoran, Archbishop in partibus. The day closed 
with a beautiful ball ; in short, my happiness was com- 
plete. 

The more I studied the character of my lovely wife 
the more I adored her. She united in her little per- 
son every attraction of mind and body. She was a 
thought prudish, but I ascribed that to the influence 
of the English fogs, in which she had always lived, 
and felt no doubt that this trifling defect would soon 
vanish in the climate of France. 

What annoyed me more seriously was a sort of 
mystery in which she sometimes enveloped herself 
with singular rigidity, locking herself up for hours 
with her attendants, at her toilet, as she said. Hus- 
bands are not fond of these vagaries in their homes. 
At least twenty different times did I knock at my 
wife's door without being admitted. This annoyed 
me extremely. One day I insisted upon coming in 
with so much irritation that she was forced to yield, 
and open the door, not without many complaints of 
my impatience. As I entered, I noticed a large bottle 
full of a sort of paste made of flour and Spanish white. 



32 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

I asked my wife what she did with this mixture ; she 
replied that it was an opiate for chillblains, from which 
she suffered. 

This opiate struck me as a little suspicious, but how 
could I mistrust so sweet and excellent a being, who 
had given herself to me with so much enthusiasm 
and such perfect trust. 

I did not know at first that my beloved was liter- 
ary, but after some time she confessed it, and even 
went so far as to show me the manuscript of a novel 
in which she had imitated both Sir Walter Scott and 
Scarron. I leave you to imagine the pleasure of this 
discovery. I was not only the possessor of a creature 
of incomparable beauty, but I found that my fair 
companion's intellect was in every way worthy of 
my own. From that moment we worked together. 
"While I was composing my poems she covered reams 
of paper. I recited my verses aloud, which did not 
the least interfere with her writing. She produced 
novels with a facility almost equal to my oWn, always 
choosing the most dramatic subjects, parricide, mur- 
der, rape, and even picking pockets, but never omit- 
ting a passing attack upon the government or failing 
to preach the emancipation of female blackbirds. 
In a word, no flight was above her talent, no expedi- 
ent too much for her delicacy ; she was never obliged 
to erase a line nor to sketch her plan beforehand. 
She was the type of the literary lady blackbird. 

One day, as she was working with even more than 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 33 

wonted ardor, I noticed that she perspired profusely, 
and was astonished to observe a large black spot on 
her back. 

" Good heavens ! " I exclaimed. " What is the 
matter ? are you ill ? " 

At first she seemed a little frightened and confused, 
but her constant contact with the world enabled her 
to regain the admirable self-command which was ha- 
bitual with her. She told me that it was an ink spot, 
and that she was very subject to it in moments of in- 
spiration. 

" Is my wife changing her color ? " I asked my- 
self. The thought banished sleep. The bottle of 
paste recurred to me. " Oh heavens ! " I cried, " what 
a suspicion ! If this celestial creature should prove 
to be but a painted image, mere stucco ? could she 
have varnished herself to impose upon me ? While I 
dreamed that I was pressing to my heart the sister of 
my soul, the privileged being created for me alone, 
can it be I have wedded nothing but flour ? " 

I laid a plan to dispel the horrible doubt by which 
I was haunted. I bought a barometer and waited anx- 
iously for it to foretell a rainy day. I meant to choose 
a threatening Sunday, and take my wife into the 
country to try the test of a ducking. But we were in 
mid-July, and the weather was hopelessly fine. 

My recent happiness, and the habit of writing, had 
excited my sensibilities extremely. I was so emotional 
that in composing I sometimes found my feelings over- 



34 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

power my ideas, and wept while seeking a rhyme. 
My wife was very fond of these occasions ; all mascu- 
line weakness is gratifying to feminine pride. 

One night, as I was polishing a line, according to 
the precepts of Boileau, my heart was opened. 

" Oh thou my best and only love ! " I exclaimed to 
my dear blackbird. "Thou without whom my life 
is a vain dream ! Thou whose glance, whose smile 
metamorphose the universe for me ; life of my heart ! 
dost know how I love thee ? To clothe in verse a 
commonplace thought which has been already used 
by others demands only a little study and practice, 
but where shall I find language to express the feelings 
with which thy beauty inspires me ? Can even the 
memory of my past sorrows furnish me with words to 
paint my present joy ? Before thou earnest to me, 
my solitude was that of an orphan and an exile ; now 
it is that of a monarch. In this frail form, whose 
counterpart is mine until death shall annihilate us, 
in this fevered little brain, fermenting with idle 
thoughts, dost thou know, Oh my angel ! dost thou 
divine, Oh my beautiful one ! that naught can exist 
in which thou hast not a part ? List to the utter- 
ances of my brain, and guess how much my love ex- 
ceeds them ! Oh that my genius were a pearl, and 
thou wert Cleopatra ! " 

While thus descanting, I wept over my wife, and 
she changed color visibly. At every tear that fell 
from my eyes, a feather appeared which was not even 



THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 35 

black, but rusty brown ; my belief is that she had lost 
her original color some time before. After some mo- 
ments of emotion, I found myself confronting an un- 
pasted, defloured fowl, in no wise different from the 
commonest and meanest of blackbirds ! 

What could I say ? what could I do ? what position 
could I take ? Reproaches were useless. It is true 
I could have considered the case as rehibitory, and 
annulled my marriage, but how could I publish my 
own shame ? Was not my misfortune great enough 
already ? I plucked up my courage, resolved to quit 
the world, abandon the career of letters, if possible 
bury myself in a desert, to shun the face of every liv- 
ing creature, and like Alceste, to seek 

" some refuge hidden, 

Where to be a white blackbird is not forbidden." 

Still weeping I flew away, and the wind, which plays 
the part of chance in the life of birds, bore me to a 
branch in the forest of Morfontaine. This time every- 
body had gone to bed. 

" What a marriage ! " I said to myself. " What a 
mischance ! It was certainly with the best motives 
that the poor child plastered herself with white, but I 
am none the less to be pitied, nor is she the less 
rusty." 

The nightingale was still singing alone in the depth 
of night ; he rejoiced with his whole soul in the gift of 
God which raises him so far above the poet, and 
poured forth his heart to the surrounding silence. I 
could not resist the temptation of accosting him. 



36 THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 

u How fortunate you are," I said ; " you not only can 
sing as much as you like, and very well too, and every- 
body listens to you, but you have a wife and children, 
your nest, your friends, a soft pillow of moss, a full 
moon, and no reviewers. Rubini and Rossini cannot 
be compared to you : you surpass the one, and inter- 
pret the other. I too have sung, but it was a poor 
business. I was mustering phrases and ranging words 
in order of battle, like Prussian soldiers, while you 
were in the woods. "Will you tell me your secret ? " 

" Yes," replied the nightingale, " but it will not be 
what you expect I am tired of my wife, I do not 
care for her : I am in love with the rose : Saadi the 
Persian has sung of us. I strain my throat the live- 
long night for her, but she sleeps and does not hear 
me ; her calyx is closed round an old beetle whom she 
is cradling to sleep, and to-morrow morning, when I go 
to rest, worn out with grief and fatigue, she will unfold 
it that a bee may feed upon her heart" 



MIMI PINSON. 

PROFILE SKETCH OF A GRISETTE. 

CHAPTER I. 

AMONG the students who attended the lectures at 
the Medical School last year, was a young man named 
Eugene Aubert. He was rather over nineteen, and 
well-born. His parents, who lived in the country, 
made him a small allowance, which, however, he found 
sufficient. He led a quiet life, and was considered 
very amiable. His classmates were fond of him ; they 
always found him good-humored and obliging, with 
an open hand and heart. The only thing of which they 
could complain was a strange tendency to dreaminess 
and seclusion, and such excessive delicacy of language 
and conduct that he had gained the nickname of the 
little girl, an appellation at which he himself laughed, 
and to which his friends attached no offensive meaning, 
knowing that he was brave enough on occasion ; but his 
mode of life certainly justified the name, especially by 
constrast with that of his companions. He was al- 
ways foremost when there was work to be done, but if 
there was a party of pleasure on foot, a dinner at 
the Moulin de Heurre, or a dance at the Casino, the 



38 M1M1 PIN SON. 

little girl shook his head and retreated to his lodg- 
ings. But what marked him as almost preter-* 
natural among medical students, was not only his 
having no mistress, though his age and appearance 
guaranteed him success, but that nobody had ever 
seen him flirting across a counter with a grisette, an 
honored custom of the Quartier Latin from time im- 
memorial. 

The beauties of the Mont Ste. Genevieve, who share 
the homage of the students, inspired him with an aver- 
sion amounting to repugnance. He looked upon them 
as a distinct race, ungrateful, dangerous, and depraved, 
born to cause evil and misfortune in return for enjoy- 
ment. " Beware of those women," he was wont to say, 
" they are like dolls of red-hot iron." Unfortunately, 
he had but too many arguments to justify his detestation. 
It was but too easy to cite the quarrels, excesses, and 
sometimes utter ruin resulting from these transient 
connections which borrow the semblance of happi- 
ness ; it is this year as it was last, and will probably 
be the same next year too. 

It is needless to say that Eugene's friends teased 
him continually about his morality and scruples. 

" What do you make out ? " his friend Marcel, who 
affected to be a free liver, used to ask him ; " what can 
you prove by a single slip, or a mishap once in a way ? " 

" That we should refrain altogether, lest it should 
happen again," was Eugene's reply. 

" Bad reasoning," returned Marcel : " your argu- 



MIMI PIN BON. 39 

ment is like a card house, which tumbles down if one 
side gives way. What is there in it all to make a serious 
matter of? If one of us loses at cards, is that a rea- 
sr n why the rest should turn monk ? If another has 
not a penny left, and a third has to dine on bread and 
water, why should Eliza lose her appetite ? Who's to 
blame if your gay neighbor pawns his watch to be able 
to go and break his arm at Montmorency ? your fair 
neighbor hasn't lost her arm. You fight a duel about 
Rosalie and are wounded ; she turns her back upon 
you ; well, what of that ? her waist is none the less 
slim. These are but the little accidents of existence, 
and not so frequent as you fancy. How many happy 
couples you see on a fine Sunday in the cafes, the 
parks, the tea-gardens. Look at the great bulging 
omnibuses stuffed with grisettes going to Ranelagh and 
Belleville. Count those who sally forth of a holiday 
from the Quartier St. Jacques alone ; the battalions of 
milliners, the armies of seamstresses, the hosts of women 
who sell tobacco ; they all enjoy themselves, have their 
love affairs, and flock to the arbors in the suburbs of 
Paris like flights of sparrows. If it is rainy, they go 
to the play, where they eat oranges and weep, for they 
eat a great deal, it must be confessed, and also cry eas- 
ily, which is a proof of a tender heart. And if, after 
sewing, basting, hemming, quilting, and darning the 
whole week long, on Sunday these poor girls give us a 
practical sermon on forgetfulness of our troubles and 
love for our neighbor, where's the harm? and what 



40 MIMI PIN SON. 

can a decent fellow, who has spent his week in dissect- 
ing objects which are far from agreeable, do better 
than clear his sight a little by looking at a rosy face, a 
neat ankle, and the beauties of nature ? " 

u Whited sepulchres," Eugene would reply. 

"I assert and I will maintain," continued Marcel, 
" that a great deal could and should be said in defense 
of grisettes, and that a moderate use of them is good. 
In the first place, they are modest, for they spend the 
whole day in manufacturing the garments most indis- 
pensable to decency ; in the next place, they are well 
conducted, for there is no head of a plain-sewing or of 
any other establishment, who does not enjoin upon her 
shop-women to be civil to everybody ; thirdly, they are 
extremely neat and clean, seeing that they have con- 
stantly white linen or muslin in their hands, which 
they dare not soil on pain of being paid less ; in the 
fourth place, they are sincere, for they drink ratafia ; 
fifthly, they are frugal and economical, because they 
have great trouble in earning thirty cents, and if they 
are sometimes greedy and extravagant it is never with 
their own money ; sixthly, they are very gay, because 
the work on which they are occupied is for the most 
part deadly dull, and as soon as it is finished they are 
as frisky as fish. Another recommendation is that 
they are not troublesome, inasmuch as passing their 
lives nailed to a chair from which they dare not budge, 
they cannot run after their lovers like fine ladies. 
Then they are not great talkers, because they are 



HIM I PINS ON. 41 

obliged to count their stitches. They do not spend 
much on their shoes, for they do not walk much, nor 
on their dress, because their credit is not large. If 
they may be accused of inconstancy, it is not on ac- 
count of the bad novels they read nor their own natural 
depravity ; it is due to the great number of people who 
pass their shop windows ; and on the other hand, the 
proof that they are capable of a real passion is the 
great number of them who daily throw themselves in- 
to the Seine or out of the window, or asphyxiate them- 
selves in their room. It is true that they have the in- 
convenient peculiarity of always being hungry and 
thirsty, owing to their extreme temperance, but it is 
notorious that they are satisfied with a glass of beer 
and a cigar by way of a meal, a precious quality rarely 
to be found in domestic life. In short, I maintain that 
they are good-natured, amiable, faithful, and disinter- 
ested, and that it is to be regretted when they end in 
the hospital." 

It was generally at the cafe, when his head was a lit- 
tle heated, that Marcel discoursed thus ; then he would 
fill his friend's glass and insist on his drinking the 
health of Mademoiselle Pinson, a little needle-woman 
who lived near them, but Eugene would take his hat 
and slip quietly away while Marcel continued to hold 
forth to his companions. 



42 MIMI PINS ON. 



CHAPTER. H. 

MADEMOISELLE PINSON was not exactly what one 
calls a pretty woman. There is a wide difference be- 
tween a pretty woman and a pretty grisette. If a 
pretty woman, acknowledged and pronounced to be so 
by Parisian verdict, were to take it into her head to 
put on a little cap, a chintz dress, and a black silk 
apron, she must needs look like a pretty grisette. 
But if a grisette were to dress herself up in a bonnet, 
a velvet cloak, and a dress from Worth's, she would by 
no means necessarily be a pretty woman ; on the con- 
trary it is probable that she would look like a clothes- 
peg, and no blame to her. The difference lies in the 
circumstances of these two creatures, and chiefly in 
the little bit of buckram covered with some sort of 
stuff and called a bonnet, which women think fit to 
tie over their ears a little like the blinkers of a horse ; 
it is to be observed, however, that blinkers prevent 
horses from looking about, and that the bit of buckram 
prevents nothing of the sort. 

Be this as it may, a little cap requires a turned-up 
nose, which in its turn demands a well-shaped mouth 
with good teeth, and a round face for the frame. A 
round face requires sparkling eyes, which are best as 
black as possible, with eyebrows to match. The hair 
ad libitum, for the eyes settle everything else. Such a 
combination is evidently far from being beautiful, 



I 
JdlMl P1NSON. 43 

strictly speaking. It is what is called irregularly 
pretty, the classic face of the grisette, which might 
possibly be ugly in the bits of buckram, but which is 
charming in a cap, and prettier than beauty itself. 
Such was Mademoiselle Pinson. 

Marcel had taken it into his head that Eugene 
should pay his court to this damsel wherefore I 
cannot tell, unless because he himself was the adorer 
of Mademoiselle Zelia, Mademoiselle Pinson's most 
intimate friend. It struck him as being a natural and 
convenient arrangement; he wished to settle matters 
to suit himself, and make love in a friendly way, as it 
were. Such plans are not uncommon, and succeed 
quite often ; for ever since the world began, opportu- 
nity has been found the strongest of all temptations. 
Who can tell the real source of our joys and griefs, 
our attachments and quarrels, our happiness and 
misery? a door of communication, a back stair- 
case, an entry, a broken pane. 

Some characters, however, draw back from these 
games of chance. They choose to conquer their 
enjoyments, not to win them as at a lottery, and are 
not moved to fall in love because they find themselves 
next to a pretty woman in a public conveyance. 
Eugene was one of these, and Marcel knew it, there- 
fore he had long nursed a project, simple enough in 
itself, but which he thought most ingenious, and 
infallibly sure to overcome his friend's resistance. 
He had resolved to give a supper, and decided that 



44 MIMI PINS ON. 

his own birthday was the fittest occasion for it. He 
ordered two dozen bottles of beer, a large joint of 
cold veal with salad, an enormous plum-cake, and a 
bottle of champagne. He first invited two of his 
fellow-students, then announced to Mademoiselle Zelia 
that there was to be a frolic at his rooms that evening, 
and she must bring Mademoiselle Pinson. They 
were quite sure to be there. Marcel was considered 
one of the fine gentlemen of the Latin Quarter, one of 
those whose invitations are not to be declined, and 
seven o'clock had but just finished striking when the 
two grisettes knocked at his door. Mademoiselle 
Zelia was arrayed in a short dress, gray gaiter-boots, 
and a cap with flowers ; Mademoiselle Pinson more 
quietly attired in a black gown which she always wore, 
and which they used to say gave her a little Spanish 
air, of which she was very proud. Both, as you may 
suppose, were in entire ignorance of their host's 
designs. 

Marcel had too much tact to invite Eugene in 
advance : he was too sure of a refusal. It was not 
until the girls had taken their places and the first 
glass had been emptied, that he excused himself for a 
few minutes to go and look for another guest, and 
then turned his steps towards Eugene's lodgings. 
He found him at work as usual, surrounded by his 
books. After some passing remarks he began to 
reproach him gently with studying so hard and never 
giving himself any relaxation, and at length he pro- 



MIMI PIN SON. 45 

posed a walk. Eugene, who was in fact rather weary, 
having studied the whole day, assented : the two 
young men went out together, and after a few turns 
in the walks of the Luxembourg it was not difficult for 
Marcel to induce his friend to go home with him. 

The two grisettes finding themselves left alone and 
probably tired of waiting, had begun by making them- 
selves at home ; they had taken off their bonnets and 
shawls, and were humming a quadrille and dancing, 
not forgetting to do honor to the repast from time to 
time, by way of testing its quality. Their eyes were 
already sparkling and their cheeks flushed, as Eugene 
bowed to them with a mixture of surprise and shy- 
ness, and they stopped short, in high spirits and a little 
out of breath. Owing to his secluded habits, they 
hardly knew him by sight, and immediately scruti- 
nized him from head to foot with the undaunted 
curiosity which is the prerogative of their class ; they 
then resumed their song and dance as if nothing had 
happened. The new comer, a little disconcerted, fell 
back a few steps, meditating a retreat perhaps, but 
Marcel, having double-locked the door, threw the key 
noisily on the table. 

" Nobody here yet ? " he exclaimed. " Where are 
our friends ? But no matter, we have captured the 
savage. Ladies, let me present the most virtuous 
youth in France and Navarre, who has long been very 
anxious for the honor of your acquaintance, and who 
is an especial admirer of Mademoiselle Pinson." 



46 MIMI PINS ON. 

The quadrille stopped again ; Mademoiselle Pinson 
made a little bow and put on her cap. 

"Eugene," cried Marcel, "this is my birthday, 
and these two ladies are good enough to celebrate it 
with us. I brought you here almost by force, it is true, 
but I hope you will stay of your own accord if we beg 
you. It is now almost eight o'clock ; we have time 
to smoke a pipe while waiting for an appetite." 

As he spoke he looked towards Mademoiselle 
Pinson, who instantly understood him, and bowing a 
second time, said to Eugene in a sweet voice 

" Yes sir, do stay, we beg of you." 

At this moment the two students whom Marcel had 
invited, knocked at the door. Eugene saw that he 
could not retreat with a good grace, so resigning him- 
self, he took his seat with the rest. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE supper was long and lively. The gentlemen 
began by filling the room with smoke, and then drank 
in porportion to refresh themselves. The ladies did 
the talking, and regaled the company with remarks, 
more or less pointed, about their various friends and 
acquaintances, and adventures, more or less credible, 
picked up in the back-shops. If the stories were not 
very probable, they were at least very marvellous. 
Two lawyer's clerks, so they said, had made twenty 



MI MI PIN SON. 47 

thousand francs by speculating in Spanish funds, 
and had devoured it in six weeks with two girls from 
a glove-shop. The son of one of the richest bankers 
in Paris had offered an opera-box and a country-seat 
to a well-known sempstress, who had refused them, 
preferring to take care of her parents and remain true 
to a salesman at the Deux-Magots. A certain person 
whom they could not name, and whose rank forced 
him to wrap himself in the deepest mystery, had come 
incognito to visit a girl who embroiders, in the Passage 
du Pont Neuf, and she had been immediately seized by 
order of the police, put into a post-chaise at midnight, 
with a pocket-book full of bank-notes, and dispatched 
to the United States, etc. etc. 

" That's enough," interposed Marcel. " We have 
heard that sort of thing before. Zelia is romancing, 
and as to Mademoiselle Mimi, which is Mademoiselle 
Pinson's name among friends, her information is 
incorrect Your lawyer's clerks got nothing but a 
sprain in clearing a gutter, your banker proffered an 
orange, and your embroidery-girl, so far from being 
in the United States, is to be seen every day from 
twelve to four o'clock, at the alms-house, where she 
has taken lodgings on account of the rise in provi- 
sions." 

Eugene was sitting near Mademoiselle Pinson ; he 
thought that she turned pale at these last words, which 
were carelessly uttered. But almost at the same 
instant she rose, lighted a cigarette, and said in a 
deliberate manner, 



48 M1M1 PIN SON. 

" It is your turn to be silent now ! I claim the 
floor. Since my lord Marcel does not believe fables, 
I will tell you a true story, et quorum magna pars 

fuir 

" You understand Latin ? " said Eugene. 

" As you hear," replied Mademoiselle Pinson. " I 
learned this sentence of my uncle, who served under 
the great Napoleon, and never omitted it before telling 
us about a battle. If you do not know the meaning, 
I will tell you for nothing. It means : ' I give you 
my word of honor.' You must know that last week 
I went with two of my friends, Blanchette, and 
Rougette, to the Odeon Theatre " 

" Wait till I cut the cake," said Marcel. 

" Cut, but listen," replied Mademoiselle Pinson. 
" Well, I went with Blanchette and Rougette to see a 
tragedy. Rougette, as you know, has lately lost her 
grandmother, who left he.r four hundred francs. We 
took a box ; three students were near us in the pit : 
these young fellows accosted us, and asked us to 
supper, on the pretext that we were alone." 

" Without preamble ? " inquired Marcel. " Upon 
my word it was very civil. And you declined, I 
suppose ? " 

" No sir," replied Mademoiselle Pinson : " we ac- 
cepted, and at the first entr'acte, without waiting 
for the end of the play, we repaired to Viot's." 

" With your cavaliers ? " 

" With our cavaliers. The waiter began, of course, 



Ml MI PINS ON. 49 

by saying that there was nothing left ; but we were 
not to be balked by such a trifle. We ordered them 
to go into the city and fetch whatever was needed. 
Rougette took the pen and ordered a regular wedding- 
supper, prawns, a sweet omelette, fritters, mussels, 
whipped eggs, everything that is to be found in sauce- 
pans. Our young friends' faces grew rather long, it 
must be confessed " 

" By Jove ! so I should think," said Marcel. 

" We paid no attention to that. When the supper 
came we began to play the fine lady. We found noth- 
ing good, everything disgusted us, we scarcely tasted 
a dish before we sent it away and asked for some- 
thing else. ' Waiter, take that away, it is not eatable ; 
where did you buy such horrible trash?' Our un- 
known friends wished to eat, but they had no 
chance. In short, we supped like Sancho, and our 
anger carried us so far as to break some of the 
crockery." 

" Pretty behavior ! and who was to pay ? " 

" That was the very question the three strangers 
asked each other. From what they said in a low 
tone, we gathered that one of them had six francs, 
the next infinitely less, and the third had nothing but 
his watch, which he generously pulled out of his 
pocket. In this state the three unfortunates pre- 
sented themselves at the counter, in hopes of effect- 
ing some compromise. What do you think they were 

told?" 

4 



50 MIMI PINS ON. 

" That they must go to the lock-up, and you would 
be kept as security, I suppose," said Marcel. 

" You are wrong," replied Mademoiselle Pinson. 
" Before going up-stairs, Rougette had been on the 
alert, and everything was paid in advance. Fancy the 
effect of Viot's response : ' Everything is settled, 
gentlemen.' Our stranger friends looked at us as 
three cats never looked at three kings, with a touch- 
ing stupefaction mingled with emotion. However, we 
pretended to take no notice of it, but went down 
stairs and called for a coach. ' My dear marchioness,' 
said Rougette to me, ' we must take these gentle- 
men home.' ' Certainly, my dear countess,' I an- 
swered. Our poor admirers did not know what to 
say. You may guess if they were sheepish ! they 
declined our politeness, they would not be Caken home, 
they refused to give their address no wonder ! 
They were convinced that we were women of rank, 
and they lived heaven knows where ! " 

Marcel's friends, the two students, who up to this 
time had done nothing but smoke and drink in 
silence, seemed far from pleased with this story. 
They changed color ; perhaps they knew as much as 
Mademoiselle Pinson of the unlucky supper, for they 
gave her an uneasy glance, as Marcel said, laughing : 

" Name your incognitos, Mademoiselle Pinson ; 
there can be no harm, as it happened last week." 

" No, indeed ! " returned the grisette. " One may 
hoax a man, but ruin his career never ! " 



PINS ON. 51 

"You are right," observed Eugene. "And you 
show more discretion than you are aware of, perhaps. 
Of all the young men in the various colleges, there is 
hardly one who cannot look back to some folly or 
some fault, and yet thence emerges daily all that is 
most respected and respectable in France : physicians, 
magistrates " 

" Yes," responded Marcel, " that is true. There 
are budding peers of France who dine at Flicoteaux's 
and have not always wherewithal to pay the bill. 
But," he broke off with a wink, "haven't you seen 
anything more of your friends ? " 

" What do you take us for," answered Mademois- 
elle Pinson, with a serious and almost offended air. 
" Don't you know Blanchette and Rougette, and do 
you suppose that I " 

" "Well, well, do'nt be angry," said Marcel. " But, 
after all, this is a pretty adventure. Three hair- 
brained girls, who probably had nothing to pay for 
their next day's dinner with, throwing money out of 
the window for the fun of mystifying three poor devils 
who couldn't help themselves." 

" Why did they ask us to supper ? " retorted 
Mademoiselle Pinson. 



52 MUfl PIN SON. 



CHAPTER IV. 

WITH the plum-cake, the solitary bottle of cham- 
pagne, which represented the dessert, appeared in all 
its glory. With the wine came a call for a song. 

"I see," said Marcel, " as Cervantes says, I see 
Zelia coughing, which is a sign that she wishes to 
sing. But, with the permission of these gentlemen, as 
I am host, I will beg Mademoiselle Mimi for a stave, 
if she is not hoarse from telling us that story. 
Eugene," he continued, " do be a little gallant, drink 
your fair neighbor's health and ask her on my behalf 
to sing." 

Eugene blushed and obeyed. As Mademoiselle 
Pinson had not disdained to persuade him to stay, he 
bowed and said shyly : 

" Yes, mademoiselle, do sing, we beg of you." 

So saying, he raised his glass, and touched that of 
the grisette. The collision produced a clear, ringing 
sound ; Mademoiselle Pinson caught up the note, and 
prolonged it in a pure, fresh voice. 

" Good," she said. " As my wine-glass gives me 
the La I consent. But what shall I sing for you ? 
I am not a prude, I can assure you, but I don't know 
any mess-room songs. I don't degrade my memory." 

" Yes, yes," interposed Marcel. " You are a mo- 
del, we know ; go on ; everybody is allowed liberty of 
conscience." 



MIM1 PINS ON. 53 

" Well," returned Mademoiselle Pinson, " I will sing 
you off-hand some verses which were written to me." 

" Attention ! Who's the author ? " 

" My fellow-sempstresses. It is needle-made po- 
etry, so I crave indulgence." 

" Has your song a chorus ? " 

" Of course ; what a question ! " 

" That being the case," said Marcel, " have your 
knives ready, and beat time with the chorus. Zelia 
may be excused if she wishes." 

" Why so, you rude fellow ? " asked Zelia, angrily. 

" For good reasons," replied Marcel. " But if you 
wish to join, here, take this cork, that will be better 
for our ears and your fair hands." 

Marcel arranged the glasses and plates in a circle, 
and took the head of the table, knife in hand. The 
two heroes of Rougette's supper, who had cheered up 
a little, removed the bowl of their pipes that they 
might beat time! with the wooden stems ; Eugene was 
pensive ; Zelia pouted. * Mademoiselle Pinson took a 
plate and intimated that she wished to break it ; 
Marcel replied by a gesture of assent, and the song- 
stress, taking the broken bits for castanets, began the 
verses her comrades had composed for her, with an 
apology for whatever might seem too flattering to her- 
self. 

" Mimi Pinson is a blonde of renown; 
But one gown and cap has she ; 
The Grand Turk has surely more ! 
Heaven gave her this small store, 



54 MINI PINS OK. 

Meaning her discreet to be. 
None can pawn Mimi Pinson's only gown. 

" Mimi Pinson wears a white rose which grew 
In her heart, its name is glee ; 
Merry songs, when she doth sup 
From the bottle she calls up, 
And then we may sometimes see 
Mimi Pinson's only cap all askew. 

" Quicker eyes and hands have none in the town ; 
The hussars wear out their sleeves 
On her counter all day long; 
But though she does no one wrong 
Each his lesson due receives : 
None must crush Mimi Pinson's only gown. 

" Mimi Pinson ne'er may wed ; if so hap 
She can live and die a maid 
With her trusty needle still ; 
But be sure she never will 
Be by mere good looks betrayed ; 
Mimi Pinson has a head in her cap. 

" But if some day with orange-blossom crown 
Cupid chance to deck her head, 
Coat of arms, or blazoned crest 
Has she none, but what is best 
For the man whom she will wed; 
A rare pearl set in Mimi Pinson's gown. 

" Mimi Pinson has no taste for clap-trap, 
But unto the very core 
She's republican at heart; 
In the Three Days did her part, 
Lacking sword a bodkin wore ; 
Lucky he who pins his badge to her cap ! " 



M1M1 PIN SON. 55 

The knives and pipes, nay the very chairs, had 
resounded duly at the end of each verse. The glasses 
danced upon the table, and the bottles, which were 
half empty, tipped about merrily and gave each other 
little raps on the shoulders. 

" And so your young friends composed this song for 
you ? " said Marcel. " Somebody else had a hand in it ; 
it is too complimentary. Give me one of those good 
old songs where things are called by their names." 

And he began in a powerful voice : 

" Nanette was not fifteen years old " 

" That will do ! " cried Mademoiselle Pinson. " We 
would rather dance ; let us have a waltz. Is there a 
musician among us ? " 

" I have all that is necessary," replied Marcel. 
" Here is a guitar ; but," he continued, taking down 
the instrument, " but my guitar has not all that is 
necessary ; it lack three strings." 

" But here is a piano," said Zelia. " Marcel will 
play for us." 

Marcel looked at his mistress as indignantly as if 
she had accused him of a crime. He did know 
enough music to play a quadrille, but like many other 
people, he considered it a species of torture to which 
he would never willingly submit. Zelia, in betraying 
him, took her revenge for the speech about the cork. 

" Are you crazy ? " said Marcel. " You know well 
enough that the piano is here only for show, and that 
nobody but you ever disturbs it. Who told you that 



56 MIMI PIN SON. 

I could play for dancing. I can only play the ' Mar- 
seillaise ' with one finger. Now with Eugene there 
it's different ; that's the fellow who knows how to 
play ! But I wouldn't bore him by asking him, on 
any account. You are the only one here inconsid- 
erate enough to do such a thing when a man has no 
chance of escape." 

Eugene blushed for the third time, and complied 
with the request proffered with so much delicacy and 
diplomacy. He seated himself at the piano, and a 
quadrille was made up. 

It lasted nearly as long as the supper. After the 
quadrille came a waltz, after the waltz a galop, for 
they dance the galop still in the Latin Quarter. The 
ladies were especially indefatigable, and skipped, and 
screamed with laughter, at a rate to rouse the whole 
neighborhood. Before long, Eugene, who was fatigued 
both by the noise and the late hour, fell into a sort 
of stupor, though he went on playing mechanically, as 
postillions doze on the trot. The dancers passed and 
repassed before him like phantoms in a dream, and 
as there is no such easy prey to low spirits as an 
unparticipating spectator of the mirth of others, his 
habitual melancholy fell upon him. 

" Empty gayety ! " he thought. " Hollow mirth ! 
Moments which they fancy they snatch from misery ! 
Which of the five people tripping so joyously before 
me now knows whether they will have enough to pay 
for their dinner to-morrow, as Marcel said." 



HIM I PIN SON. 57 

While he was making these reflections Mademois- 
elle Pinson passed close to him ; he thought he saw 
her take a bit of cake from the table on the sly while 
dancing, and slip it quietly into her pocket. 



CHAPTER V. 

DAT was dawning when the party broke up. Eu- 
gene walked about the streets for some time before go- 
ing home, to breathe the fresh morning air. Still pur- 
suing his melancholy train of thought, he hummed, 
almost unconsciously, the grisette's song : 
" ' But one cap and gown has she.' " 

" Is it possible ? " said he to himself. " Can indi- 
gence reach such a point, and yet wear a merry face, 
and make fun of itself? Can one laugh at being with- 
out food?" 

The stolen bit of plum-cake was no doubtful sign. 
Eugene could not help smiling as he thought of it, 
though moved with pity. "And yet," he thought, 
" she took cake, not bread ; perhaps it was only 
greediness. Who knows ? perhaps she wished to 
carry home some cake to a neighbor's child; per- 
haps it was for some gossipping woman who attends 
the door and who would tell that she had been out all 
night, a cerberus who had to be appeased." 

Eugene, who was taking no note of whither he went, 



58 M1M1 PIN SON. 

unconsciously strayed into the labyrinth of little 
streets behind Bucy Square, where a carriage can 
hardly pass. Just as he was about to retrace his steps, 
a pale, haggard woman, wrapped in a shabby dressing- 
gown, bare-headed and dishevelled, came out of an old 
house. She seemed to be so weak that she could 
hardly walk ; her knees trembled, she leaned against 
the walls and appeared anxious to reach a neighbor- 
ing post where there was a letter-box, to drop in a 
letter which she held in her hand. Eugene, surprised 
and alarmed, hastened towards her, asked her where 
she was going, what she wanted, and whether he could 
be of no assistance to her. At the same time he ex- 
tended his arm to support her, for she seemed about 
to fall. But she silently drew back, with a mixture of 
pride and alarm. She laid her letter on a post, 
pointed to the box, and collecting all her strength, 
said : " There ! " then, still steadying herself against 
the wall, she turned towards the house. Eugene 
vainly tried to make her take his arm, and to repeat 
his inquiries ; she slowly reentered the narrow, dark 
alley whence she had emerged. 

Eugene picked up the letter; he walked towards 
the letter-box, but stopped short. This strange meet- 
ing had agitated him so much, he felt so much horror 
mingled with the keenest compassion, that without 
giving himself time to reflect, he broke the seal al- 
most involuntarily. It seemed odious and in fact 
impossible, not to try, by any means in his power, to 



M1M1 PINS Off. 59 

sound this mystery. The woman was evidently dying ; 
was it of disease or hunger ? In either case it must 
be of wretchedness, Eugene opened the letter, which 
was addressed to the Baron , and was as follows : 

" Read this letter, sir, and for pity's sake do not re- 
fuse my petition. You and you alone can save me. 
Believe my story, give me help, and you will be doing 
a good action which will gain you a blessing. I have 
had a cruel illness, which has robbed me of the little 
strength and heart I had left. In August I go back 
to my work ; all that I own has been seized by the 
people with whom I last lodged, and I am almost cer- 
tain of finding myself without a shelter by Saturday. 
I am so afraid of starving to death that this morning 
I had made up my mind to drown myself, for it is 
twenty-four hours since I have had anything to eat. 
When I thought of you I felt a little hope ; I was not 
mistaken, was I ? ' Sir, I appeal to you on my knees ; 
no matter how little you do for me, it will at least give 
me a few days longer to live. I am afraid to die ; I 
am only twenty-three years old ! With a little help 
I might manage to get on till the first of next month. 
If I knew words to move your pity I would use them, 
but I can think of nothing. I can only lament my 
incapacity, for I am afraid you will treat my letter as 
those do who receive too many such ; you will tear it 
up without thinking that there is a poor creature who 
is counting the hours and minutes, hoping that you 



60 MIMI PIN 8 ON. 

will feel it to be too cruel to leave her in suspense. 
I am sure it is not giving away a louis, which is so 
little to you, that will deter you, and surely nothing is 
easier than to fold your alms in a papec and address 
it to ' Mademoiselle Berlin, Rue de FEperon.' I have 
changed my name since I worked for the shops, for 
the name I bore then was my mother's. When you 
go out give it to an errand boy ; I will wait through 
Wednesday and Thursday, and pray fervently that 
God may make you merciful. 

"Perhaps you will not believe that I am in such 
destitution, but if you could see me you would be con- 
vinced. ROUGETTE." 

If Eugene had been moved in reading these lines, 
it may easily be imagined that his emotion redoubled 
when he saw the signature. So it was the very girl 
who had recklessly squandered her money in parties of 
pleasure, whom want had now reduced to this depth 
of misery and to this appeal ! Such folly and im- 
providence were absolutely incredible! yet there 
could be no doubt, there was the signature, and in the 
course of the evening, Mademoiselle Pinson had also 
mentioned the assumed name of her friend Rougette, 
now called Mademoiselle Bertin. How came it that 
she was thus suddenly abandoned, without resources, 
food, almost without shelter? Where were her 
friends of yesterday while she was dying in some 
garret of this house ? And what sort of house was 
it where one might die in such a way ? 



MI MI PIN SON. . 61 

But it was not the moment for conjectures ; it was 
urgent to give the starving woman help. Eugene be- 
gan by going to an eating-house which was jyst open, 
and buying whatever he could find there. This being 
done, he set forth for Rougette's lodgings, followed by 
the waiter. But he was shy of presenting himself so 
abruptly. The air of pride which he had observed 
about this poor girl made him fear a repulse, or at 
least an outbreak of wounded vanity ; how was he to 
confess that he had read her letter? On reaching 
her door he said to the waiter : 

" Do you know a young woman called Mademoiselle 
Bertin, who lives in this house ? " 

" Oh yes, sir ! " answered the waiter. " We serve 
her regularly. But if you are going there, sir, she is 
not at home. She is out of town at present." 

" Who told you so ? " inquired Eugene. 

" Bless you, sir, the woman who waits on the door. 
Mademoiselle Rougette likes a good dinner, but she 
does not like to pay for it. She thinks nothing of 
ordering roast fowl and lobster, but you have to go 
more than once for the money ! So we all know 
well enough about here, when she is at home and 
when she is not." 

" She has come back," returned Eugene. " Go up 
to her room and leave what you have brought ; if she 
owes you anything say nothing about it to-day. That 
is my affair, and I will come back and attend to it. 
If she wishes to know who sends this, say that it is 
the Baron ." 



62 , MIMI PINS ON. 

With these words Eugene went on his way. As he 
went, he reclosed the letter as well as he could, and 
dropped it into the post. 

" After all," he thought, " Rougette will not refuse 
the dinner; and if she thinks her note has been 
answered rather promptly, she can settle that with 
her baron." 



CHAPTER VI. 

i 
STUDENTS are not in pocket every day, any more 

than grisettes. Eugene knew well enough that to 
give an air of probability to the waiter's little fable, 
he ought to have added the louis which Rougette had 
asked for ; but here was the difficulty. Louis are not 
generally current in the Rue St. Jacques. Besides, 
Eugene was pledged to pay the eating-house-keeper, 
and unfortunately just then his till was no better lined 
than his pocket. For this reason he turned immedi- 
ately in the direction of the Pantheon. 

In those days there lived in that neighborhood a 
famous barber, who afterwards became bankrupt, hav- 
ing ruined himself in the process of ruining others. 
Thither, to the room behind the shop, where usury, 
wholesale and retail, was secretly practiced, came 
daily the poor but devil-may-care student, in love 
perhaps, to borrow at an enormous rate of interest a 



MIM1 PIN SON. 63 

few coins, to be spent gayly in the evening and dearly 
repaid on the morrow. Thither, on the sly, came the 
grisette, shame-faced and hanging her head, to de- 
posit the shawl or shift she had purchased at a second- 
hand clothing-house, in exchange for a faded bonnet 
to wear to a picnic. There young men of good fam- 
ily, who were in need of twenty-five louis, gave notes 
for two or three thousand francs. Minors eat up 
their fortune in advance ; giddy youths ruined their 
families and often their own future. From the titled 
courtesan whose head is turned by a bracelet, to the 
needy school-usher who covets an old book or a mess 
.of pottage, one and all resorted thither as to the 
waters of the Pactolus, and the usurious barber, so 
proud both of his customers and his practices that he 
boasted of them openly, kept the prison at Clichy in 
lodgers till his own turn came to go thither. 

Such was the melancholy expedient to which 
Eugene, not without repugnance, was about to have 
recourse, to procure the means of relieving Rougette, 
or at least to do what he could towards it, for he did 
not feel confident that the application to the baron 
would have the desired result. To do him justice, it 
was very charitable on the part of a student to involve 
himself in this way for a stranger, but Eugene be- 
lieved in God : all good actions were to him obliga- 
tory. 

The first face he saw on entering the barber's shop 
was that of his friend Marcel, seated before a dressing- 



64 MIMl PINS ON. 

table, with a towel round his neck, affecting to have 
his hair dressed. The poor fellow had probably come 
to find the means of paying for his last night's supper ; 
he seemed deeply preoccupied, and was knitting his 
brows with a most dissatisfied expression, while the 
barber, pretending to dress his hair with a stone-cold 
pair of tongs, was talking to him with his Gascon 
accent in an undertone. In a little closet, seated be- 
fore another dressing-table, and likewise adorned 
with a towel, sat a very restless man, who looked about 
him incessantly ; and through the half open door of 
the back-shop could be seen reflected in an old 
swinging-glass, the wasted form of a young girl, who, 
aided by the barber's wife, was trying on a shabby 
plaid dress. 

"What on earth brings you here at this hour?" 
cried Marcel, whose face regained its usual good- 
humored expression at the sight of his friend. 

Eugene sat down beside the dressing-table and ex- 
plained, in a few words, his recent adventure, and the 
object which had brought him there. 

" Upon my word," said Marcel, " you are an ingen- 
uous youth. What have you to do with the business 
sinfe there is a baron in it ? You saw an interesting 
young girl who felt the need of a little food; you 
treated her to a cold chicken ; it was worthy of you ; 
there is nothing to be said, about that. You require 
no gratitude, you like the incognito : this is heroic. 
But to go further would be quixotic. To pawn one's 



M1MI PINS ON. 65 

watch or give one's note for a sempstress who is pro- 
tected by a baron, and whom one has not the honor of 
visiting, has never been done within the memory of 
man, except in the tales of chivalry." 

" Laugh as much as you like," replied Eugene, " I 
know that there are many more unfortunates in the 
world than I can relieve. Those whom I do not 
know I can but pity, but those whom I see I must 
help. Do what I will, it is impossible for me to be 
indifferent to suffering. My charity does not go so 
far as to seek out poor people, but when I fall in with 
them I must help them." 

" In that case," returned Marcel, " you will have 
plenty to do ; there is no lack of them in this country." 

" What difference does that make ? " said Eugene, 

O ' 

still agitated by the spectacle he had just beheld. " Is 
one to go on one's way and let people die of hunger ? 
This wretched girl is giddy, a fool, if you like ; per- 
haps she does not deserve the compassion she excites, 
but nevertheless compassion I feel. Would it be bet- 
ter to follow the example of her young companions, 
who seem to trouble themselves no more about her 
than if she did not exist, and who but yesterday were 
helping her to ruin herself. To whom can she turn ? 
To a stranger who would light his cigar with her let- 
ter, or to Mademoiselle Pinson, for instance, who is 
supping and dancing with all her might while her 
comrade is dying of hunger ? I confess", my dear Mar- 
cel, that all this actually horrifies me. The idea of 
5 



66 Ml MI PIN SON. 

that little minx, yesterday evening, with her songs 
and her jokes, laughing and chattering at your party, at 
the very moment when the other, the heroine of her 
story, was dying in a garret, sickens me. To live like 
friends, almost like sisters, for days and weeks; to 
rush to theatres, balls, suppers, together, and a day af- 
terwards for one not to know whether the other is alive 
or dead, is worse than the indifference of an egotist : 
it is the insensibility of a brute. Your Mademoiselle 
Pinson is a monster, and as to these grisettes whom 
you extol, with their shameless manners, and their 
heartless friendships I know of nothing more des- 
picable." 

The barber, who had listened silently to this conver- 
sation while he continued to pass the cold curling- 
tongs through Marcel's hair, smiled mischievously as 
Eugene ended. As gossiping as a magpie, or rather 
as the barber that he was, when scandal was the topic, 
and as taciturn and laconic as a Spartan in all matters 
of business, he had adopted the prudent habit of al- 
ways letting his customers say what they had to say 
before he spoke. The indignation which Eugene ex- 
pressed in such violent terms, however, forced him to 
break his silence. 

" You are severe, sir," said he, in his Gascon accent, 
with a laugh ; " I have the honor of dressing Mademoi- 
selle Mimi's hair, and I believe her to be a most ex- 
cellent person." 

" Yes," replied Eugene, " most excellent, when it is 
a question of drinking and smoking." 



MIMI PIN BON. 67 

" Very likely," returned the barber. " Young girls 
like to laugh, sing, and smoke, but some of them have 
hearts." 

" What are you driving at, Father Cadedis," asked 
Marcel. " Don't give us so much diplomacy, but 
come to the point." 

" I mean to say," resumed the barber, pointing to 
the back-shop, " that there, hanging on a nail, is a 
little black silk gown that you, gentlemen, doubtless 
know, if you know the owner, for her wardrobe is not 
very extensive. Mademoiselle Mimi sent me that 
dress this morning at daybreak, and I presume that 
if she has not done anything for poor Rougette, it is 
because she is not rolling in wealth herself." 

" That is odd," said Marcel, rising and going into 
the back-shop without the least consideration for the 
poor girl in the plaid dress. " Then Mimi's song is 
not true, as she pawns her gown. But how the deuce 
is she to pay her visits now ? She can't go into 
society to-day." 

Eugene had followed his friend. The barber had 

o 

not deceived them. There, in a dusty corner, in the 
midst of a host of other garments of every sort, the 
solitary gown of Mimi Pinson was hanging, humbly 
and sadly. 

" That's it," said Marcel. " I recognize it because 
I saw it bran new, eighteen months ago. It is Mad- 
emoiselle Pinson's dressing-gown, riding-habit, and 
walking-dress. There must be a little stain about the 



68 .Ml Ml PINS ON. 

size of a wafer on the left sleeve, made by a drop of 
champagne. And how much did you lend her for it, 
Father Cadedis ? for I suppose that the gown is not 
sold, and that it is in this boudoir only as security." 

" I let her have four francs" replied the barber : 
" and I assure you that it is pure charity, sir. I would 
only have advanced anybody else forty sous upon it, 
for the article is infernally rotten : one can see through 
it like a magic-lantern. But I know that Mademoi- 
selle Mimi will pay me ; she is good for four francs." 

" Poor Mimi ! " replied Marcel. " I would wager 
my cap that she only borrowed the money to send it 
to Rougette." 

" Or to pay some importunate creditor," Eugene 
suggested. 

" No," replied Marcel. " I know Mimi, and I be- 
lieve her incapable of stripping herself to pay a cred- 
itor." 

" No indeed," replied the barber, " I knew Madem- 
oiselle Mimi in a much better position than her pres- 
ent one, and then she had a great many debts. The 
duns went regularly every day to seize her effects, 
#nd at last they took everything but her bed, for you 
know, of course, gentlemen, that a debtor's bed can- 
not be seized. Now at this time Mademoiselle Pinson 
had four very nice dresses. She put them all on, one 
over the other, and went to bed in them, in order that 
they might not be seized ; therefore I should be sur- 
prised if, nowadays, having but one gown, she pawned 
it to pay anybody." 



MIM1 PIN SON. 69 

" Poor Mimi ! " repeated Marcel. " But how on 
earth does she manage ? can she have deceived her 
friends, and does she possess an unsuspected gown ? 
Perhaps she is ill from eating too much plum-cake, 
and to be sure, if she is in bed, she has no need to 
dress herself. No matter. Father Cadedis, this gown 
afflicts me, with its drooping sleeves, which look as if 
they were imploring pity ; here, deduct four francs 
from the thirty-five livres you have just advanced me, 
and wrap this dress in a towel for me, that I may 
carry it back to the child. Well, Eugene ! " he con- 
tinued, " what does your Christian charity say to that ? " 

" That you are right," replied Eugene, " to say and 
do all this, but that perhaps I am not wrong ; I will 
lay you a wager if you like." 

" Done ! " cried Marcel. " Bet a cigar, like the 
members of the Jockey Club. And now you have 
nothing to do here ; I have thirty-one francs ; we are 
rich. Let us go at once to Mademoiselle Pinson's ; I 
am curious to see her." 

He put the gown under his arm and the two left 
the shop. 



CHAPTER VII. 

" MADEMOISELLE has gone to church," said the 
woman who answered the door, to the two students, 
when they reached Mademoiselle Pinson's lodgings. 



70 MIMI PIN SON. 

" To church ! " repeated Eugene with surprise. 

" To church ! " echoed Marcel. " That is impossi- 
ble ; she is not out Let us in, we are old friends." 

"I assure you, sir," said the woman, "that she 
went to church, about three quarters of an hour ago." 

" To what church did she go ? " 

" To St Sulpice, as usual ; she never misses a 
morning." 

" Yes, yes, I know that she says her prayers, but it 
seems odd that she should be out to-day." 

" There she comes, sir ; she is turning the corner ; 
you can see her for yourself." 

It really was Mademoiselle Pinson coming home 
from church. Marcel no sooner caught sight of her 
than he rushed toward her, impatient to examine her 
toilet. She had on, in lieu of a gown, a petticoat of 
dark calico, half hidden by a green serge curtain, of 
which she had contrived to make herself a sort of 
shawl. From this singular costume, which, however, 
owing to its dark tone, did not attract attention, 
peeped her graceful head in its white cap, and her 
little feet in gaiter-boots. She had wrapped herself 
in her curtain with so much art and care that it really 
looked like an old shawl, and the border could hardly 
be seen. In short, she contrived to be charming even 
in this toggery, and to prove, for the thousandth time, 
that a pretty woman is always pretty. 

" How do I look ? " said she to .the young men, open- 
ing her curtain a little and giving them a glimpse of 



Ml MI PINS ON. 71 

her slender waist in its trim corsets. "This is a 
morning-dress Worth has just sent me." 

" You, look charming ! " cried Marcel. " Upon my 
soul, I never would have believed anybody could look 
so well in a window-curtain." 

" Do you really think so ? " returned Mademoiselle 
Pinspn. " J look a little bunchy, though." 

" Like a bunch of roses ! " replied Marcel. " I am 
almost sorry now that I brought you back your 
dress." 

My dress ? Where did you find it ? " 

" Where you left it, most likely." 

" And have you rescued it from captivity ? " 

" Yes, by Jove, I paid its ransom. Do you resent 
the liberty ? " 

" No indeed ! provided you will let me do as much 
for you some day. I'm glad enough to see my dress 
again, for to tell the truth, we have lived together for 
a long while, and I have insensibly become attached 
to it." 

As she spoke, Mademoiselle Pinson ran briskly up 
the five flights of stairs which led to her little room, 
which the two friends entered with her. 

u But I can only give you back the dress upon one 
condition," said Marcel. 

" Fie ! " exclaimed the grisette. " For shame ! 
Conditions ? I won't have it." 

" I have a wager," continued Marcel. " And you 
must tell us honestly why you pawned your gown." 



72 MIMI PINS ON. 

u Let me put it on first," replied Mademoiselle 
Pinson ; " and then I will tell you the why and where- 
fore. But I warn you that if you do not choose to 
wait in my wardrobe or on the roof while I dress my- 
self, I shall veil your faces like Agamemnon's." 

" There is no need of that," said Marcel. " We are 
better conducted than we look, and I will not take a 
single peep." 

" Wait a minute," returned Mademoiselle Pinson. 
" I have entire confidence in you, but the wisdom of 
nations teaches us that two precautions are better 
than one." 

So saying, she whisked off her shawl and dropped 
it lightly over the heads of the two friends so as to 
blindfold them completely. 

" Don't stir," she said. " It will be over in a min- 
ute." 

u Take care ! " cried Marcel, " I don't answer for 
myself if there is a hole in the curtain. You were 
not satisfied with our word, so we are at liberty." 

" So is my gown, thank fortune ! " said Mademoiselle 
Pinson. " And so is my figure ! " she added, laugh- 
ing, and pulling down the curtain. " Poor little gown, 
it looks quite new to me ! It is a pleasure to feel it 
upon me again." 

" And your secret ? You must tell us now. Come, 
be honest, we are not gossips. Why and how could 
a young woman like you, steady, discreet, virtuous, 
and modest, hang your entire wardrobe on one nail 
in this manner ? " 



MIMI PIN SON. 73 

" Why ? why ? why ? " repeated Mademoiselle 
Pinson with some hesitation ; then taking each of the 
young men by an arm, she drew them to the door and 
said : " Come, and you shall see." 

And as Marcel expected, she led the way to the 
Eue de 1'Eperon. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

MARCEL won his bet. Mademoiselle Pinson's four 
francs and the bit of cake were upon Rougette's table, 
with the remains of Eugene's chicken. 

The poor invalid was a little better, but still in bed ; 
and whatever gratitude she may have felt to her un- 
known benefactor, she sent word by her friend to 
beg the gentlemen to excuse her, as she was not in a 
condition to receive them. 

" Just like her ! " exclaimed Marcel. " She might 
be dying upon straw in her attic, but she would play 
the duchess to her pitcher and basin, to the last." 

The two friends were therefore obliged reluctantly 
to go back as they had come, not without a private 
laugh at the pride and reserve which lodged so 
strangely in a garret. 

After attending the lectures at the Medical School, 
they dined together, and in the evening took a stroll 
in the Boulevard des Italiens. 

" Now admit," said Marcel, smoking the cigar he 



74 MI MI PINS ON. 

had won that morning, " that I have reason to like, 
and even to respect these poor girls. Look at the 
thing calmly from a philosophic point of view. That 
little Mimi, whom you abused at such a rate, has 
done a more praiseworthy, meritorious, I -might even 
say a more Christian action than good King Robert, 
when he let a beggar cut off the fringe of his mantle. 
Good King Robert, to begin with, had of course a 
number of mantles, besides which, history says he was 
at table, when the mendicant approached him on all 
fours, and cut off the golden fringe of the monarch's 
cloak with a pair of scissors. Her sacred majesty, 
the queen, disapproved of the proceeding ; the worthy 
monarch generously pardoned the fringe-cutter, it is 
true, but probably he had just dined well. See how 
far Mimi rises above him ! Mimi most assuredly was 
fasting when she heard of Rougette's misfortune. 
You may be certain that the bit of cake she carried 
away from my rooms was originally intended for her 
own breakfast. But what did she do? Instead of 
breakfasting she went to church, and in this too she 
proves herself at least equal to King Robert, who 
was very pious, I admit, but who wasted his time in 
psalm-singing while the Normans were raising the 
devil. King Robert gave away his fringe, but, after 
all, he kept the cloak. Mimi sent her whole and sole 
gown to Father Cadedis an incomparable action, in- 
asmuch as Mimi is a woman, young, pretty, coquettish, 
and poor. Pray observe too that this dress is indis- 



HIM I PINS ON. 75 

pensable to her going as usual to the shop where she 
earns her daily bread ; so she not only denied herself 
the cake she was about to eat, but voluntarily in- 
curred the risk of having no dinner. Moreover, 
Father Cadedis is very far from being a beggar and 
creeping under the table on all-fours. King Robert 
made no great sacrifice in giving up his fringe, since 
it was cutoff already, and there is no knowing whether 
it was not cut crooked, so that it could not be sewed 
on again, while Mimi, on her own impulse, far from 
waiting until her gown was stolen, strips her poor 
form of this garment, which is more useful, more 
precious to her than the tinsel of all the gimp-mak- 
ers in Paris. She goes out dressed in a window- cur- 
tain, but you may be sure she would go nowhere but 
to church in such trim. She would rather cut off her 
arm than be seen such an object in the gardens 
of the Luxembourg or Tuileries ; but she is not 
ashamed to appear before God at the hour of her daily 
prayer. Believe me, Eugene, in that one act of 
wearing her window-curtain across the Place St. 
Michel, the Rue de Tournon, and the Rue du Petit- 
Lion where everybody knows her, there is more cour- 
age, humility, and true religion, than in all King Rob- 
ert the Good's hymns, though everybody talks about 
those, from the great Bossuet down to the insipid An- 
quetil while Mimi will die unknown in her fifth 
story room, between a bit of hemming and a flower- 
pot." 



76 MINI PINS ON. 

u So much the better for her," replied Eugene. 

" Now if I wished to draw another parallel," re- 
sumed Marcel, " I would compare Rougette to Mu- 
cius Scaevola. Do you believe that on the whole it 
was more difficult for a Roman of the time of Tar- 
quin to hold his arm in a brazier for five minutes 
than for a grisette of the present day to do without 
food for twenty -four hours? Neither of them com- 
plained, but compare their motives. Mucius was in 
the midst of a hostile camp, in the presence of an 
Etruscan king whom he had tried to assassinate ; 
he had failed lamentably, he was in the clutches of 
the police. What comes into his head ? A piece of 
bravado. In order to be admired before he is hung, 
he reddens his fist over some embers (for there is no 
proof that the censer was red-hot, nor that he burned 
his hand to ashes). Whereupon the worthy Por- 
senna, stupefied by the flourish, pardons and sends him 
home. I would wager that the said Porsenna, who 
was capable of so pardoning him, had a good-natured 
face, and that Scaevola guessed that in sacrificing his 
hand he should save his head. Now Rougette, on the 
contrary, patiently endured the slowest and most hor- 
rible of tortures, death by starvation ; there was no- 
body to see her. She was alone in her garret, with 
neither Porsenna (that is to say, the baron), nor the 
Romans, her neighbors, nor the Etruscans, her debt- 
ors, to admire her, not even the censer, for her stove 
was cold. Now, why did she suffer in silence ? Pri- 



MIM1 PIN SON. 77 

marily from vanity, I grant you, but so did Mucius ; 
secondly from greatness of soul, and this is to her 
glory, for if she locked herself up in her room it was 
just in order that her friends might not know that 
she was dying, that they might not bewail her cour- 
age, that her comrade, Mimi Pinson, whom she knew 
to be kind and unselfish, might not be compelled to 
give up her own gown and cake, as she did. Mucius, 
in Rougette's place, would have pretended to die in 
silence, but it would have been in a public square, or 
at the door of a fashionable restaurant. His- sublime 
silence would have been a delicate way of asking for 
a crust and a glass of wine. It is true that Rougette 
asked the baron (whom I insist on comparing to Por- 
senna) for a louis, but you see the baron is evidently 
under some personal obligations to Rougette ; that is 
obvious to the least sharp-sighted person. Besides, as 
you wisely observed, the baron may be out of town, in 
which case Rougette is lost. And do not think to 
reply by the empty comment that is made on all the 
fine actions of women, that they do not know what they 
are about, and run into danger like cats upon a roof. 
Rougette knows what death is; she saw it face to 
face once at the Pont de Jena, for she threw herself 
into the river once before. I asked her if she had 
suffered ; she said no, that she had felt nothing until 
they were fishing her out, when the watermen pulled 
her by the legs, and, as she expressed it, scraped her 
head against the edge of the boat." 



78 MIMI PIN SON. 

" Stop ! " cried Eugene, " spare me such hideous 
jokes. Answer me this seriously : do you believe 
that such a horrible experience, constantly recurring, 
and always impending, will finally bear some fruit ? 
Have these poor girls, who are thus thrown upon 
themselves without counsel or support, enough sense 
to profit by experience ? Have they some special 
demon of their own who has consigned them to eter- 
nal madness and misery, or notwithstanding all their 
folly, do they ever eventually turn out well ? Here is 
one who .says her prayers, you say ; she goes to church ; 
she fulfills her duties ; she lives honestly by her own 
work ; her companions appear to respect her, and 
even rakes like you do not treat her with your habit- 
ual freedom. Here is another who alternates inces- 
santly between madcap frolics and indigence, be- 
tween excess and the horrors of starvation. Certainly 
she ought to be able to remember the cruel lessons 
she has had. Do you think that with good advice, 
regular habits, and a little help, such women could be 
made rational creatures ? If you do, say so, an occa- 
sion offers. Let us go at once to that poor Rougette : 
no doubt she is still very ill, and her friend will be at 
her bedside. Don't discourage me ; let me try : I 
will strive to lead them back to the strait path, to 
speak to them like a friend. I will neither lecture nor 
scold ; I will approach that sick-bed, take them by the 
hand, and say " 

The two friends were just passing the Cafe Tortoni. 



MIMI PIN SON. 79 

The forms of two girls eating ices near a window 
were visible by the light of the chandeliers. One of 
them waved her handkerchief, the other burst out 
laughing. 

" By Jove ! " exclaimed Marcel ; " if you have any- 
thing to say to them we have not far to go, for there 
they are, as I'm a sinner ! I know Mimi by her dress, 
and Rougette by her white cap, eating as usual. 
The baron has behaved handsomely, it seems." 



CHAPTEE IX. 

" AND does not such recklessness appal you ? " said 
Eugene. 

" It does," replied Marcel ; " but when you abuse 
grisettes, I beg you to make an exception in favor of 
little Mimi. She told us a story at supper, she pawned 
her gown for four francs, and she made herself a shawl 
with a window-curtain ; whoever tells only what she 
knows, gives everything that she has, and does all that 
she can, is not expected to do more." 



FANTASIO. 

A COMEDY. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

THE KING OF BAVARIA. 

THE PRINCE OF MANTUA. 

MARINONI, the Prince's Aide-de-camp. 

RUTTEN, the King's Secretary. 

FANTASIO, 

SPARK, 

HARTMAN" I Youn 9 Men v e Town - 

FACIO, ' ; 

ELSBETH, the King's Daughter. 

HER COMPANION. 

OFFICERS, PAGES, etc. 



FANTASIO. 

A COMEDY. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. The Court. 
The KING, ROTTEN, and Courtiers. 

The King. My friends, some time ago I announced 
to you the betrothal of my dear Elsbeth to the prince 
of Mantua. To-day I have to announce the prince's 
arrival ; he will be here this evening, or to-morrow at 
the latest. I wish this to be a general holiday ; throw 
open the prisons, and let the people spend the night 
in merry-making. Rutten, where is my daughter ? 

[ The courtiers withdraw. 

Rutten. In the park with her governess, sire. 

The King. Why have I not seen her yet to-day ? 
Is she glad or sorry that her wedding draws near ? 

Rutten. It struck me that the princess's counte- 
nance was slightly overcast. But what young girl is 
not pensive on the eve of marriage ? Besides, St. 
John's death has distressed her. 



84 FANTASIO. 

The King. Do you really think so ? The death of 
my jester, a humpbacked, purblind merry-andrew ? 

Rutten. The princess was attached to him. 

The King. Tell me, Rutten, you have seen the 
prince, what sort of man is he ? Alas ! I am giv- 
ing him all I hold most precious, and I do not even 
know him. 

Rutten. I was but a very short time at Mantua. 

The King. Be frank. With whose eyes am I to 
see the truth if not with yours ? 

Rutten. Indeed, sire, I can tell you nothing of 
either the noble prince's mind or character. 

The King. Oh ho ! You hesitate, courtier though 
you are ! How many panegyrics, hyperboles, and 
metaphors of the most flattering kind would have rung 
through this apartment if the prince, who is to be my 
son-in-law to-morrow, had impressed you as worthy of 
the title ! My friend, have I made a mistake ? Have 
I chosen amiss ? 

Rutten. Sire, the prince is called one of the best 
of sovereigns. 

The King. Politics are a spider's web, in which 
many a hapless fly is left to struggle. I will not 
sacrifice my daughter to any consideration of expe- 
diency. 



FANTASIO. 85 



SCENE II. A Street. 
SPARK, HARTSIAN, and FACIO, at a table, drinking. 

Harlman. Since it is our princess's wedding-eve, 
let us drink, smoke, and be noisy. 

Facio. It would be good fun to mix with the crowd 
which is rushing about the streets, and smash a lamp 
or two over the honest citizens' heads. 

Spark. No, no, let us smoke peaceably. 

Hartman. I will do nothing peaceably : I must be 
heard on a holiday, even if I have to turn bell-clapper 
and hang myself in a steeple. Where the devil is 
Fantasio ? 

Spark. Let us wait for him; don't let us begin 
anything without him. 

Facio. Bah ! He will find us fast enough. He is 
getting tipsy in some corner of Low Street. Ho 

there ! more wine. 

[Raises his glass. Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Gentlemen, be good enough to move on a 
little unless you wish your fun to be stopped. 

Hartman. And why, pray, captain ? 

Officer. The princess is there, upon the terrace, 
and you yourselves must see that it is not fitting she 

should hear your shouts. 

{Exit. 



86 F ANT AS 10. . 

Facio. This is intolerable. 

Spark. What difference does it make to us 
whether we have a good time here or somewhere 
else? 

Hartman. Who knows that we shall be allowed to 
have a good time anywhere else ? You'll see that a 
rascal in green will rise from every stone in the pave- 
ment to order us to go and have a good time in the 
moon. 

[Enter MARINONI, wrapped in a cloak. 

Spark. The princess never committed a despotic 
action in her life, Heaven bless her ! If she doesn't 
wish us to laugh, she must be sad, or singing ; let us 
leave her in peace. 

Facio. Humph ! Here's a mysterious-looking 
cloak, sniffing about for news. The gaper seems 
anxious to speak to us. 

Marinoni [approaching]. Gentlemen, I am a stran- 
ger ; what is the meaning of this festivity ? 

Spark. The princess Elsbeth is to be married. 

Marinoni. Ah indeed ! She is handsome, I sup- 
pose. 

Hartman. As handsome as you are yourself. 

Marinoni. Beloved by the whole nation, I infer, 
for there appears to be a general illumination. 

Hartman. You are right, my good friend; all 
these little lamps, as you sagaciously observe, con- 
stitute neither more nor less than a general illumina- 
tion. 



FANTASIO. 87 

Marinoni. I designed to inquire whether the prin- 
cess is the cause of all this rejoicing. 

Hartman. The sole cause, most powerful orator. 
We might all of us marry and there would be no sign 
of rejoicing in this ungrateful town. 

Marinoni. Happy the princess who is beloved by 
her people ! 

Hartman. Lighted lamps do not make a nation 
happy, dear innocent. They do not prevent the prin- 
cess's being as fantastic as a water-wagtail. > 

Marinoni. Really ! Fantastic, you say ? 

Hartman. I did, my dear stranger ; I used that 

word. 

[MABINOHI bows and withdraws. 

Facio. What the deuce does the fellow want, with 
his Italian accent ? There he goes, to join another 
group. One can smell the spy a mile off. 

Hartman. One can smell nothing of the sort ; he 
is boundlessly stupid, that's all. 

Spark. Here comes Fantasio. 

Hartman. What ails him ? He struts like a chief- 
justice. If I'm not much mistaken he is hatching 
some mad prank. 

Facio. Well, old fellow, what shall we make of 

this fine night? 

[Enter FASTASIO. 

Fantasio. Make anything but a new novel. 
Facio. I was saying that we had better set upon 
this herd and amuse ourselves a little. 



88 FANTASIO. 

Fantasia. Then we shall need pasteboard noses, 
and plenty of torpedoes. 

Hartman. Hug the girls, pull the men's cues, and 
smash the lamps. Come on. 

Fantasia. Once upon a time there was a king of 
Persia 

Hartman. Come along, Fantasio. 

Fantasia. I'm not of the party. 

Hartman. Why not ? 

Fantasio. Give me a glass of that stuff. 

[Drinks. 

Hartman. Your cheeks are as rosy as May. 

Fantasio. I know it, and my heart is as cold as 
January. My head is like an old burnt out chimney, 
nothing in it but wind and ashes. Ugh ! [Sits down.~\ 
How it bores me to see all those people enjoying 
themselves. I wish that great heavy sky was an im- 
mense cotton night-cap which would muffle this stu- 
pid city and its stupid inhabitants down to their ears. 
Come, tell me some stale joke, do, something well 
worn. 

Hartman. Why so ? 

Fantasio. To make me laugh. I can't laugh at 
anything new any longer ; perhaps I could laugh at 
something I know already. 

Hartman. You seem to be slightly misanthropic 
and melancholy. 

Fantasio. Not in the least: it is merely that I 
have just been to see my mistress. 



FANTAS10. 89 

Facio. Once for all, will you come with us ? 

Fantasia. I will go with you if you will stay with 
me ; let us sit here a little while discussing matters 
and things in general, and admiring our new clothes. 

Facio. Not I indeed. If you are tired of standing 
I am tired of sitting ; I must have room to disport 
myself. 

Fantasia. I don't know how to disport myself. I 
shall smoke under the chestnut-trees with this good 
old Spark, who will keep me company. "Won't you, 
Spark ? 

Spark. Yes, if you like. 

Hartman. In that case adieu. We are going to 
see the fun. 

[Exeunt HAKTSIAN and FACIO; SPARK and FANTASIO seat 

themselves. 

Fantasia. What a failure the sunset is ! Nature 
is pitiable this evening. Only look at that valley over 
there, and those four or five wretched clouds climbing 
up the side of the mountain ; I used to draw land- 
scapes like that on the fly-leaves of my school-books 
when I was twelve years old. 

Spark. What good tobacco ! What good beer ! 

Fantasia. How I must bore you, Spark. 

Spark. No indeed ; why should you ? 

Fantasia. Because you bore me so horribly. 
Don't you mind seeing the same face every day ? 
What the devil can Hartman and Facio find to do in 
this merry-making? 



90 FANTASIO. 

Spark. They are two active scamps who can't be 
quiet an instant. 

Fantasia. How delightful the " Arabian Nights " 
are. Oh my dear Spark ! if you could only transport 
me to China ! If I could but come out of my skin 
for a couple of hours ! If I could be that gentleman 
who is passing. 

Spark. That you will find difficult. 

Fantasia. The gentleman who is passing is charm- 
ing ; see what beautiful silk breeches he has ! what 
lovely flowers those are upon his waistcoat ! His 
bunch of seals bobs against his paunch in emula- 
tion of his coat-tails which flap against his calves. I 
am sure that man has a thousand notions in his head 
which are absolutely unknown to me ; his essence is 
quite individual. Alas ! all that men say to each other 
is the same ; the ideas they interchange are all alike ; 
but what windings, what secret drawers there must be 
inside of those complicated machines ! Everybody 
carries a whole world about in him, an unknown world 
which lives and dies in silence ! What solitudes all 
those human beings are ! 

Spark. Drink, do, you idler. 

Fantasia. There is but one thing that has amused 
me for three days past, and it is, that my creditors 
have a warrant out against me, and if I set foot in my 
house I shall instantly be collared by four constables. 

Spark. That's pleasant, upon my word. Where 
shall you sleep to-night ? 



FANTASIO. 91 

Fantasia. At the first comer's. Do you know my 
furniture is to be sold to-morrow morning ? Shan't 
we go and buy some of it ? 

Spark. Do you want money, Harry ? Can I lend 
you some ? 

Fantasia. Donkey ! If I had no money I should 
have no debts. I have a great mind to take an 
opera-dancer for a mistress. 

Spark. That would bore you to death. 

Fantasia. Far from it ; my fancy would be peo- 
pled with pirouettes and white satin slippers ; I should 
have my glove on the railing of the balcony from 
New Year's day to New Year's eve ; I should hum 
clarionet solos in my sleep, iiniil I died in the arms 
of my beloved from a surfeit of strawberries. Spark, 
did it ever occur to you that none of us has any pro- 
fession or business ? 

Spark. Is that what depresses you ? 

Fantasia. There are no melancholy fencing-mas- 
ters. 

Spark. You seem to me to have exhausted every- 
thing. 

Fantasia. Ah, my dear fellow ! to have exhausted 
everything one must have been everywhere. 

Spark. Well, what then ? 

Fantasia. What then ? Why, where else can one 
go ? Look at this smoky old town ; there is not a 
square, street, or alley, where I have not wandered 
fifty times; not a flag-stone over which I have not 



92 FANTASIO. 

dragged my weary feet ; not a house of which I don't 
know the old woman's or young girl's tiresome phiz, 
eternally to be seen at the window. I can't take a step 
without retracing my steps of yesterday. Well, my 
dear fellow, this is nothing compared to my own brain. 
All its purlieus are a hundred times more familiar to 
me ; I have rambled in a hundred more directions 
through this dilapidated brain whereof I am the sole 
inhabitant ; I have got drunk in all its taverns ; I have 
rolled through* it in a gilded coach, like a king ; I have 
trotted about it on a quiet nag, like a good citizen ; 
and now I don't dare to enter it even with a dark lan- 
tern, like a burglar. 

Spark. I can't understand this everlasting self-dis- 
section. For my part, when I smoke, my thoughts 
take the form of tobacco ; when I drink, of sherry 
wine or Dutch beer ; when I kiss my sweet-heart's 
hand they enter into her taper fingers and spread 
through her being in magnetic currents. The scent 
of a flower is enough to delight me, and the most 
trifling object in creation suffices to make a bee of me, 
and send me flying hither and thither from one new 
pleasure to another. 

fantasia. In a word, you could go fishing. 
Spark. I could do that or anything else that 
amused me. 

Fantasia. Even to taking the moon between your 
teeth. 

Spark. That would not amuse me. 



FANTASIO. 93 

Fantasio. Pooh ! what do you know about it ? 
Taking the moon between one's teeth is not to be 
despised. Let's play at trente et quarante. 

Spark. Not I. 

Fantasio. Why not ? 

Spark. Because we should lose our money. 

Fantasio. Oh ! good Lord, what a notion ! You 
don't know what to concoct to bother yourself about. 
Do you see everything in such dismal hues, unfortu- 
nate man ? Lose our money ? Have you neither faith 
nor hope ? You must be a shocking infidel, capable of 
withering my heart and dispelling my illusions, 

mine, so full of life and sap. 

[He begins to dance. 

Spark. Upon my word, there are times when I 
would not take my oath that you are not cracked. 

Fantasio [still dancing~\. I want a diving-bell ! a 
glass diving-bell ! - 

Spark. What do you want a diving-bell for? 

Fantasio. Isn't it Jean Paul who says that a man 
absorbed in a great thought is like a diver in his bell 
in the vast ocean ? 

Spark. Turn newspaper-writer or literary man of 
some sort, Harry ; it is the only efficacious way left us 
to get rid of misanthropy and numb the imagination. 

Fantasio. Oh ! if I were but mad about a pickled 
lobster, or a grisette, or a collection of minerals ! 
Spark, let's try and build a house. 

Spark. Why don't you write down your fancies ? 
they would make a pretty collection. 



94 FANTAS10. 

Fantasia. A sonnet is better than a long poem, 
and a glass of wine than a sonnet. 

[He drinks. 

Spark. Why don't you travel ? Go to Italy. 

Fantasio. I've been there. 

Spark. Well, didn't you think it a fine country ? 

Fantasio. There are hosts of insects as large as 
cockchafers which bite you all night. 

Spark. Go to France. 

Fantasio. There is no good Rhine wine in Paris. 

Spark. Go to England. 

Fantasio. Have the English a country of their 
own ? I would rather see them here than there. 

Spark. Go to the devil then . 

Fantasio. Oh if there were but a devil in heaven ! 
If there were but a hell, how quick I'd blow my brains 
out to see it all ! What a wretched creature man is ! 
He can't so much as jump out of his own window 
without breaking his legs. He has to practice the 
violin ten years to become a fair musician ; he has to 
learn before he can be a painter or an ostler ; he has 
to learn to make an omelette. Spark, I should like 
to sit on the railing of a bridge and watch the water 
flowing by and count one, two, three, four, five, six, 
and so on until I died. 

Spark. Many would laugh at what you say : for my 
part it makes me shudder ; it is the story of our whole 
century. Eternity is a great eyrie whence the succes- 
sive ages, like young eaglets, have taken wing to trav- 



FANTASIO. 95 

erse the sky and vanish. Ours, now that his turn has 
come, stands on the edge of the nest, but his wings 
have been clipped, and he awaits death, gazing upon 
space without the power to launch into it. 

Fantasia [sings'], 

Thou call'st me thy life, ah call me thy soul, 
. For the soul is immortal, and life's but a day. 

Do you know a more divine song than that, Spark ? 
It is a Portuguese song ; I never think of it without 
longing to be in love with somebody. 

Spark. With whom, for instance ? 

Fantasia. With whom ? I don't know. Some fair, 
plump girl like Mieris's women ; something as soft 
as the west wind and as pale as moonlight ; some- 
thing as pensive as those little servant-maids in the 
Flemish pictures, offering the stirrup-cup to the high- 
booted traveller who sits straight as a pike on his 
large white horse. What a pretty thing the stirrup- 
cup is ! A young woman on the threshold, the blazing 
fire visible within, the supper-table set, the children 
asleep. all the quiet of a calm and contemplative 
life in one corner of the picture ; and without, the 
man, panting, but firm in his saddle, with twenty, 
thirty leagues still before him ; a mouthful of brandy, 
and good-by ! the dark night is beyond, the weather 
is lowering and the forest dangerous ; the good 
woman follows him with her eyes for a moment, and 
as she turns toward her hearth again, bestows that sub- 
lime alms of the poor : ' God keep him ! ' 



96 F ANT AS 10. 

Spark. Harry, if you were in love you would be 
the happiest of men. 

Fantasia. Love does not exist any longer, my dear 
fellow* His nurse, Religion, has dangling breasts 
like an old purse with a penny at each end. Love is 
a consecrated wafer, to be broken at the foot of an 
altar and swallowed with a kiss ; there are no more 
altars, and there is no more love. Long live nature ! 

There's wine at any rate. 

[He drinks. 

Spark. You will be tipsy. 

Fantasio. You say true ; I shall be tipsy. 

Spark. It is rather late for that. 

Fantasio. What do you call late ? Is noon late ? 
Is midnight early ? When do you begin the day ? Let 
us stay here, Spark ; let's drink, discuss, analyze, be 
irrational, and talk politics ; let us devise combina- 
tions for the government ; let us catch all the chafers 
which fly round this candle and put them into our 
pockets. Do you know that steam-cannon are a fine 
thing from a philanthropic point of view ? 

Spark. What do you mean ? 

Fantasio. Once upon a time there was a king who 
was very, very good, and very, very happy. 

Spark. Well ? 

Fantasio. The only thing he needed to complete 
his happiness was children. He caused public prayers 
to be offered in all the mosques. 

Spark. What are you driving at ? 



FANTASIO. 97 

Fantasio. I am thinking of my dear "Arabian 
Nights ; " they all begin so. Bravo, Spark, I'm tipsy ! 
I must do something ! Tra la la ! Come, let's be off. 
[ J. funeral passes.] Holloa, good people, who are you 
burying ? This is no hour for funerals. 

The Pall-bearers. We are burying St. John. 

Fantasio. Is St. John dead ? The king's fool ? 
Who succeeds him ? The Secretary of State ? 

The Pall-bearers. His place is still vacant, so you 
can apply for it if you like. 

[Exeunt. 

Spark. You deserved that piece of impertinence. 
What induced you to stop those people ? 

Fantasio. They were not impertinent. The man 
gave me a bit of friendly advice which I intend to 
follow forthwith. 

Spark. You mean to turn court jester ? 

Fantasio. This very night, if they will have me. 
Since I can't sleep at home, I mean to see the royal 
comedy which is to be performed to-morrow, and from 
the king's box into the bargain. 

Spark. How clever you are ! You will be recog- 
nized, and the footmen will kick you out ; wasn't the 
late queen your godmother ? 

Fantasio. How stupid you are! I shall wear a 
hump and red wig like St. John's, and nobody on 
earth will know me, even if I had three dozen rela- 
tions at my heels. [He knocks at a shop door.~\ 



98 FANTASIO. 

Holloa there, good man ! Let me in if you haven't 
gone out ; you, and your wife, and your pups. 

A tailor [opening the door]. What does your wor- 
ship want ? 

Fantasio. Aren't you the court tailor ? 

Tailor. The same, at your service ? 

Fantasio. Did you make St. John's clothes ? 

Tailor. Yes, sir. 

Fantasio. You knew him, then? You know on 
which side his hump was, how he trimmed his mus- 
tache, and what sort of wig he wore ? 

Tailor. Ha, ha! You are joking, sir. 

Fantasio. Man, I am not joking. Come into your 
back-shop, and if you do not wish to be poisoned in 
your coffee at breakfast to-morrow, be silent as the 
grave as to all that takes place there. 

[Exit with the Tailor ; SPARK follows them. 



SCENE III. An inn near Munich. 
Enter the PRINCE OF MANTUA and MABISONI. 

The Prince. What news, colonel ? 

Marinoni. I beg pardon, your highness ? 

The Prince. What news, Marinoni ? 

Marinoni. Melancholy, fantastic, mad with spirits, 
submissive to her father, very fond of green peas. 

The Prince. Write all that down; I can read 
nothing easily except a round hand. 



FANTASIO. 99 

Marinoni [writes]. Mel an 

The Prince. Write to yourself; I am evolving an 
important project while I dine. 

Marinoni. Here is what your highness desires. 

The Prince. Good ; I proclaim you my intimate 
friend ; I know of nobody in my whole kingdom who 
writes as well as you do. Sit down, there, at a 
distance from me. So, my friend, you think that the 
character of the princess, my future wife, is privately 
known to you ? 

Marinoni. Yes, your highness. I scoured the en- 
virons of the palace, and these notes are her princi- 
pal characteristics, which I gathered from the conver- 
sations in which I mingled. 

The Prince [looking at himself in the glass]. It 
strikes me that I am powdered like a man of the 
lower classes. 

Marinoni. Your highness's coat is magnificent. 

The Prince. What should you say, Marinoni, if you 
saw your master in a simple, olive-green frock-coat ? 

Marinoni. Your highness is testing my credulity. 

The Prince. No, colonel : know that your master 
is the most romantic of men. 

Marinoni. Romantic, your highness ? 

The Prince. Yes, my friend, for I have conferred 
that title upon you, the important project I was 
evolving is something hitherto unheard of in my 
family. I mean to appear at my royal father-in-law's 
court in the dress of a simple aide-de-camp. It is not 



100 FANTASIO. 

enough to have sent a gentleman of my household, 
and that gentleman yourself, Marinoni, to ascertain 
the general opinion respecting the Princess of Man- 
tua ; I wish to see her with my own eyes. 

Marinoni. Js it possible, your highness ? 

The Prince. Do not be petrified. The intimate 
friend of such a man as myself should have a vast 
and enterprising mind. 

Marinoni. I see but one thing to interfere with 
your highness's plan. 

The Prince. What is that ? 

Marinoni. The idea of such an undertaking could 
occur only to the glorious prince who governs us, but 
if my gracious sovereign conceals himself among his 
suite, to whom will the King of Bavaria do the honors 
of the splendid banquet which is to be given in the 
great gallery ? 

The Prince. True : if I go in disguise somebody 
must personate me. That is impossible, Marinoni ; I 
never thought of it. 

Marinoni. But why impossible, your highness ? 

The Prince. I might indeed lower the princely 
dig"ity to the rank of a colonel, but can you suppose 
that I would ever consent to elevate any man, no mat- 
ter who, to mine ? Beside , do you think my father- 
in-law would ever pardon me for doing so ? 

Marinoni. The king has the reputation of being a 
man of great good sense, ability, and good humor. 
The Prince. Ah ! I can't abandon my scheme 



FANTASW. 101 

without regret. Think of penetrating into this foreign 
court without pomp or circumstance, observing every- 
thing, approaching the princess under a feigned name, 
and perhaps making myself beloved by her ! Oh, I 
am forgetting myself; that would be out of the ques- 
tion. Marinoni, my friend, try on my court dress ; I 
can't resist it. 

Marinoni \_bowing~\. Your highness ! 

The Prince. Do you think future ages will ever 
forget such an incident ? 

Marinoni. Never, gracious prince. 

The Prince. Come and try on my coat. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. The King of Bavaria's palace gardens. 
Enter ELSBETH and her Companion. 

The Com. My poor eyes have wept for him like 
floods of rain. 

Elsbeth. You are so kind-hearted ! I was fond of 
St. John too ; he was so clever. No mere buffoon. 

The Com. To think of the poor man's -going to 
heaven on the very eve of your marriage ! He who 
talked of nothing but you at dinner and supper, and 
all day long. Such a lively, amusing fellow, that he 
made one like ugliness, and one's eyes followed him in 
spite of themselves. 



t 
102 F ANT AS 10. 

Elsbeth. Don't mention my marriage ! That is a 
worse misfortune. 

TJie Com. Do you know that the Prince of Man- 
tua will be here to-day ? They say he is a perfect 
Amadis. 

Elsbeth. Why do you say that, dear ? He is hid- 
eous and imbecile, and everybody here knows it al- 
ready. 

The Com. Really ? They told me he was an Ama- 
dis. 

Elsbeth. I didn't want an Amadis, my dear, but 
it is a cruel thing sometimes to be only a king's 
'daughter. My father is the best of men ; this mar- 
riage insures peace to his kingdom ; he will be re- 
warded by the blessings of his people ; but I, alas ! 
shall have only his, and nothing more. 

The Com. How sadly you speak ! 

Elsbeth. If I were to refuse the prince, war would 
soon be declared again ; how unfortunate it is that 
these treaties must always be signed with tears ! I 
wish I were strong-minded, and ready to marry any- 
body for a political necessity. To be the mother of a 
nation may console great souls, but not soft hearts. 
I am only a poor little day-dreamer ; perhaps I have 
to thank the novels which you always have in your 
pocket for that 

The Com. For heaven's sake, say nothing about 
them ! 

Elsbeth. I have known but little of life, and I have 
Jreamed a great deal. 



FANTASIO. 103 

The Com. If the Prince of Mantua be what you 
say, I feel sure that God will not permit your union to 
be concluded. 

Elsbeth. You do ! God lets men go their own 
gait, my poor dear, and pays no more heed to our sighs 
than to the bleating of sheep. 

The Com. 1 am certain that if you were to refuse 
the prince, your father would not compel you to marry 
him. 

Elsbeth. No, certainly not, and that is why I am 
ready to sacrifice myself. Would you have me go to 
my father and beg him to break his word and erase 
his revered name from the contract which makes 
thousands happy ? What does it signify if I am 
wretched ? I allow my good father to be a good king. 

The Com. [weeps]. Ah ! ah ! 

Elsbeth. Don't cry about me, dear ; you might make 
me cry myself, and a royal bride must not have red 
eyes. Don't grieve about it. After all, I shall be a 
queen ; perhaps that is pleasant. I may take a fancy 
to my jewels, who knows ? or to my equipages, or 
my new court Luckily, a princess gains many things 
by marriage besides a husband. Perhaps I shall find 
happiness hidden among my wedding-presents. 

The Com. You are a real paschal lamb ! 

Elsbeth. Look here, dear, let us begin by taking it 
gaily ; we can always cry when the time conies. 
They say the Prince of Mantua is the most ridiculous 
creature ever seen. 



104 FANTASIO. 

The Com. If St. John were but alive ! 

Elsbeth. Ah, St. John ! St. John ! 

The Com. You were very fond of him, my child. 

Elsbeth. It is strange, but his cleverness bound me 
to him by invisible threads which seemed like heart- 
strings. The incessant fun he used to make of my 
romantic notions amused me excessively, while I can 
hardly endure a great many people who overflow with 
them like myself. There was something indescribable 
about him, in his eyes, his gestures, his way of tak- 
ing snuff. He was a curious man ; as he talked, 
the most delightful pictures used to pass before my 
eyes ; his words seemed to give reality to the oddest 
fancies. 

The Com. He was a real Triboulet. 

Elsbeth. I don't know that, but he was a diamond 
of wit. 

The Com. I see the pages running hither and 
thither ; I think the prince will soon be here ; you 
ought to go back to the palace and dress. 

Elsbeth. Give me a quarter of an hour more, I en- 
treat ; go and get ready what I must wear ; alas ! dear, 
I have not much longer to dream. 

The Com. Can this marriage take place if it does 
not please heaven ? A father sacrifice his child ? 
The king will be worse than Jephthah if he does so. 

Elsbeth. You must not abuse my father ; go, dear, 
and get everything ready. [Exit the Companion.~\ 
I think there is somebody behind that shrubbery. Is 



FANTASIO. 105 

it the phantom of my poor fool that I see sitting 
among the field-flowers? Who are you? Speak? 
Why do you gather those flowers ? 

[She goes towards a green bank. 

Fantasia [seated, dressed as a jester, with a hump 
and wig~\. I am an honest flower-picker who wishes 
only to greet your bright eyes. 

Elsbeth. What do you mean by this attire ? How 
can you presume to put on that wig, and parody a 
man to whom I was attached ? Are you a 'prentice 
fool ? 

Fantasio. May it please your serene highness, I am 
the king's new fool ; the major-domo has received me 
graciously, I have been presented to the valet, the 
turn-spits have patronized me ever since last evening, 
and I am modestly gathering flowers, and waiting for 
my wit to come to me. 

Elsbeth. That is a flower I doubt your ever gather- 
ing. 

Fantasio. Why not ? Wit may come to an old 
man as well as to a young maid. It is so difficult 
sometimes to tell a clever hit from a stupid blunder. 
The main thing is to talk a great deal ; the worst shot, 
if he fires seven hundred and eighty times running, 
may hit the mark as often as a good one who fires but 
once or twice. I only ask to be fed in proportion to 
the capacity of my stomach, and I will watch my 
shadow in the sun to see if my wig grows. 

Elsbeth. So here you are in poor St. John's spoils ! 



106 FANTASIO. 

You are right to talk of your shadow ; so long as you 
may wear this costume it will be more like him than 
you will. 

Fantasia. I am in the act of composing an elegy 
which will decide my fate. 

Elsbeth. In what way ? 

Fantasia. It will either prove me to be the first of 
men or it will be good for nothing. I am going to 
turn the universe upside down to make an acrostic of 
it ; the sun, moon, and stars are fighting to get into 
my rhymes like school-boys at the door of a panto- 
mine. 

Elsbeth. Poor man ! What a trade you have 
chosen, to make wit at so much an hour. Have 
you neither arms nor legs ? would you not do better 
to harrow the earth than your own brains ? 

Fantasia. Poor child ! What a trade you have 
chosen, to marry a dolt you have never seen. Have 
you neither head nor heart ? would you not do better 
to sell your clothes than yourself? 

Elsbeth. You are very audacious, sir. 

Fantasia. What do you call this flower ? 

Elsbeth. A tulip. What then ? 

Fantasia. A red tulip or a blue one ? 

Elsbeth. Blue, I should say. 

Fantasia. Not at all, it is red. 

Elsbeth. Do you mean to put a new dress on an 
old saw ? You need not go so far out of the way 
to say that of tastes and colors there is no disputing. 



PANT AS 10. 107 

Fantasia. I am not disputing; I tell you that this 
is a red tulip, yet I admit that it is blue. 

Elsbeth. How do you manage that ? 

Fantasio. Just as you do your marriage-contract. 
Who under the sun can say whether he was born red 
or blue ? Even the tulips don't know. Gardeners 
and lawyers make such extraordinary jointures that 
apples turn into pumpkins, and thistles drop from the 
jaw of an ass to be served in sauce on an archbishop's 
silver dish. That tulip fully expected to be red, but 
they married her, and to her surprise she is blue. 
Thus is the whole world metamorphosed by the hand 
of man, and poor Dame Nature must sometimes laugh 
in her own face when she beholds her eternal travestie 
reflected in the lakes and seas. Do you believe that 
the original Paradise smelt of roses ? It only smelt 
of new-mown hay. The rose is the child of civiliza- 
tion ; she is a duchess, like you, or me. 

Elsbeth. The pale hawthorn-blossom may become 
pink, or a thistle an artichoke, but one flower can 
never be changed into another ; so what does Nature 
care ? They do not really change her, they embel- 
lish, or destroy. The humblest violet would perish 
rather than yield, if they tried, by artificial means, to 
alter her form by so much as a single stamen. 

Fantasio. That is why I respect violets more than 
king's daughters. 

Elsbeth. There are certain topics which even jesters 
have no right to joke about. Listen to me ; if you were 



108 FANTAS10. 

eaves-dropping while I was talking to fny companion, 
take heed to your ears. 

Fantasia. Not to my ears, but to my tongue. You 
refuse quarter in the wrong quarter. 

Elsbeth. Don't make puns if you wish to earn your 
wages, and don't compare me to a tulip unless you 
wish to earn something besides. 

Fantasia. Why not? A pun consoles one for 
many a grief, and playing with words is as good as 
playing with thoughts, deeds, and our fellow-beings. 
Everything is a pun here below, and it is as difficult 
to understand the glance of a child of four years old 
as the meaning of three modern dramas. 

Elsbeth. You appear to look at the world through 
a sort of prism. 

Fantasia. Everybody has his own spectacles but 
nobody else knows exactly the color of the glasses. 
Who could tell me positively whether I am happy or 
unhappy, good or bad, clever or stupid ? 

Elsbeth. You are ugly, that's certain. 

Fantasia. Not more certain than that you are 
beautiful. Here comes your father and your future 
husband ; who knows whether you will marry him or 
not? 



Elsbeth. Since I can't avoid encountering the 
Prince of Mantua now, I had better go and meet them. 

Enter the RING; MARINONI, disguised as the Prince, and the 
PBINCE as an aide-de-camp. 



F ANT AS 10. 109 

The King. Prince, this is my daughter. Excuse this 
rustic attire ; you are the guest of a plain citizen, like 
those he rules over, and our etiquette is as easy for 
ourselves as for others. 

Marinoni. Madam, allow me to kiss that fair hand, 
if it is not too great a favor for my unworthy lips. 

Ekbeth. Your highness will excuse my returning 
to the palace ; I shall meet you in a more befitting 
manner in the drawing-room this evening. 

[Exit. 

The Prince. The princess is right ; her modesty is 
adorable. 

The King [aside to Marinoni]. Who is this aide- 
de-camp who follows you like a shadow ? The way in 
which he adds some unmeaning remark to whatever 
we say is intolerable. Let me beg of you to dismiss 
him. 

[MARINONI whisper t to the PRINCE. 

The Prince [aside]. It was clever of you to per- 
suade him to send me away ; I shall try and overtake 
the princess, and make a few delicate speeches without 
being too significant. 

[Exit. 

The King. Is your aide-de-camp an idiot, my dear 
prince ? What on earth can you do with a fellow 
like that ? 

Marinoni. Hum, hum, let us walk on a little 
further, your Majesty ; I think I see a charming 
arbor in that grove.. 

[Exeunt. 



110 FANTASIO. 



SCENE II. Another part of the garden. 
Enter the PRINCE. 

The Prince. My disguise succeeds perfectly ; I re- 
connoitre, and I am making myself beloved. So far 
everything is just as I could have wished ; the father 
impresses me as a great king, though too informal, 
and I am much mistaken if he did not fancy me from 
the first. I see the princess coming back to the pal- 
ace ; fortune favors me amazingly. [Enter ELSBETH ; 
the PRINCE approaches her.~\ Will your highness per- 
mit a faithful follower of your future husband's to 
offer you the sincere congratulations which his humble 
and devoted heart finds it impossible to repress in 
your presence ? How happy are the great ones of 
this earth ! They may aspire to your hand. I may not, 
that were impossible ; I am of obscure birth ; I have 
naught to offer but a name at which the enemy trem- 
bles ; a pure and spotless heart beats beneath this 
uniform ; I am a poor soldier, riddled from head to 
foot with bullets ; I have not a ducat ; I am alone, an 
exile alike from my native soil and my celestial 
country, by which I mean the land of my dreams ; 
there is no woman's heart that I may press to my 
own ; I live silent and under a ban. 

Elsbeth. What do you want, my dear sir? Are you 
mad, or asking for alms ? 



FANTASIO. Ill 

The Prince. How difficult it were to find words for 
my emotions ! I saw you coming along this walk 
alone, and I considered it my duty to throw myself at 
your feet and offer you my escort to the garden gate. 

Elsbeth. I am much obliged to you ; be good 
enough to leave me. 

[Exit. 

The Prince. Was it a mistake to accost her ? Yet 
I was forced to do so, as I am to captivate her in dis- 
guise. Yes, I did well to accost her. But she an- 
swered me very disagreeably. Perhaps I ought not to 
have spoken with so much warmth. And yet I was 
compelled to do so, for her marriage is almost con- 
cluded, and I am bound to supplant Marinoni, who is 
personating me. Yes, yes, I was right to speak with 
warmth. But her reply was unpleasant. Can she be 
false and cold-hearted ? It will be well to ascertain 
this adroitly. 

[Exit. 



SCENE III. An antechamber in the palace. 
FANTASIO lying on a sofa. 

Fantasia. What a delightful vocation is that of a 
fool ! I suspect I was tipsy yesterday evening when I 
put on this dress and presented myself at the palace, 
but in truth my sober senses never suggested anything 
half so wise as this piece of folly. I presented myself, 



112 FANTASIO. 

and was immediately received, petted, enrolled, and 
best of all forgotten. I come and go in this palace as 
if I had been here all my days. I met the king just 
now, and he had not even the curiosity to look at me ; 
his jester died, and they told him : ' Here's another, 
sire.' Capital. Thank heaven, my brain is free at 
last ; I can play every prank that comes into my head 
without anybody's saying me nay. I am one of the 
King of Bavaria's tame animals, and as long as I 
choose to wear my hump and wig I may live between 
a spaniel and a Guinea-pig until I die. Meanwhile 
my creditors may flatten their noses against my door 
at their leisure : I am as safe under this wig as if I 
were in the Indies. Isn't that the princess I see in 
the next room, through this glass door ? She is trying 
on her wedding-veil; two great tears are running 
down her cheeks, there, one of them has dropped 
upon her bosom, like a pearl. Poor little thing! I 
did overhear what she said to her companion this 
morning, but it was by mere chance ; I was lying on 
the turf with no deeper design than to take a nap. 
Now, there she is again, weeping, and she has no idea 
that I am watching her again. Ah ! if I were a pro- 
ficient in rhetoric, what profound reflections I would 
make upon misery in a crown, upon this poor little 
lamb round whose neck they are tying a pink ribbon 
before they lead her to the shambles. The little girl 
is evidently romantic ; it is cruel to marry her to a 
man whom she does not know, yet she sacrifices 



FANTASIO. 113 

herself in silence. In what freaks Chance indulges ! 
I must needs get tipsy, fall in with St. John's funeral, 
don his dress, get his post, in short, commit the mad- 
dest act that was ever conceived, to come here and 
behold through this glass the only tears this child will 
probably shed over her melancholy bridal veil. 

[Exit. 



SCENE IV. The Garden. 
The PRINCE and MARINONI. 

The Prince. Colonel, you are a fool. 

Marinoni. Your highness misunderstands me pain- 
fully. 

The Prince. You are an absolute blockhead. 
Couldn't you have prevented it ? I have confided to 
you the grandest scheme which has been conceived 
for numberless years, and you, my best friend, my 
devoted follower, heap blunder upon blunder. No, no, 
it is of no use saying any more, it is perfectly un- 
pardonable. 

Marinoni. How can I prevent your highness's incur- 
ring the annoyances which necessarily result from the 
character you have assumed ? You command me to 
take your name and comport myself as if I were really 
the Prince of Mantua. Can I prevent the King of 
Bavaria's snubbing my aide-de-camp? You should 
not have joined in the conversation. 
8 



114 FAN TAB 10. 

The Prince. I like a rascal like you, undertaking 
to give me orders. 

Marinoni. But consider, your royal highness, I must 
either be the prince or the aide-de-camp ; I am act- 
ing by your own commands. 

The Prince. To call me impudent before the whole 
court, because I kissed the princess's hand ! I am 
ready to declare war against him, and to return to my 
kingdom and put myself at the head of my army. 

Marinoni. But your highness should recollect that 
the affront was addressed to the aide-de-camp, not to 
the prince. Do you expect homage in that disguise ? 

The Prince. Enough. Give me back my coat. 

Marinoni [taking off the coat], I am ready to die 
for my sovereign if he require it. 

The Prince. The fact is, I cannot make up my 
mind what to do. I am furious at what has hap- 
pened, yet I am wretched at having to abandon my 
plan. The princess does not seem altogether irre- 
sponsive to my tender speeches. I have already" said 
two or three incredible things to her. Come, let us 
reflect. 

Marinoni [holding the coat]. What shall I do, your 
highness ? 

The Prince. Put it on again, put it on again, 
and let us go back to the palace. 

[Exeunt. 



FANTASIO. 115 

SCENE V. 
ELSBETH and the KING. 

The King. My daughter, you must give a candid 
answer to what I am about to ask; do you dislike 
this marriage ? 

Elsbeth. Sire, you can answer for me ; if you like 
it, I like it ; if you dislike it, I dislike it 

The King. The prince seems to me a common- 
place person, of whom it is difficult to say one thing 
or the other. His aide-de-camp's stupidity alone in- 
jures him in my estimation ; he may be a good prince, 
but he is not a remarkable man. There is nothing 
about him which either attracts or repels me. What 
can I say to you ? A woman's heart has secrets which 
I cannot fathom ; they often choose such strange 
heroes, and fasten so unaccountably on one or two 
points in a man who is presented to them, that it is 
impossible to judge for them, unless one has some 
obvious indication as a guide. Tell me frankly what 
you think of your betrothed. 

Elsbeth. I think that he is Prince of Mantua, and 
that war would be recommenced to-morrow, if I were 
to refuse to marry him. 

The King. That is certain, my child. 

Ehbeth. So I think I shall marry him, and that 
there will be an end of the war. 

The King. May my nation's blessings thank you 



116 FANTASIO. 

for your father ! Oh my beloved child, I should re- 
joice in this alliance, but I do not like to see a mel- 
ancholy in those blue eyes which belies their resig- 
nation. Think over it for a few days. 

[Exit. Enter FANTASIO. 

Elsbeth. Here you are again, poor fellow. How do 
you like your place ? 

Fantasio. As a bird likes liberty. 

Elsbeth. As a bird likes a cage, you had better say. 
This palace is a pretty cage, but a cage it is, never- 
theless. 

Fantasio. The size of a palace or room does not 
make a man free, or the reverse. The body goes 
where it can ; the imagination sometimes spreads 
heaven-wide wings in a cell not a span across. 

Elsbeth. So then, fool, you are happy. 

Fantasio. Perfectly. I talk to the puppies and 
the turn-spits. There is a little dog no bigger than 
that, in the kitchen, who says delightful things. 

Elsbeth In what language ? 

Fantasio. In the purest style. He would not 
make a single grammatical error in a year. 

Elsbeth. May I not hear a few words in his style ? 

Fantasio. Really you must excuse me ; it is a 
secret language. Little dogs are not the only ones 
who speak it ; the trees, even the ears of wheat un- 
derstand it, but kings' daughters do not. When is 
your wedding to be ? 

Elsbeth. It will all be over in a few days. 



FANTAS10. 117 

Fantasia. That is to say, it will all begin. I have 
a wedding present for you. 

Elsbeth. What is it? I am curious to know. 

Fantasia. I mean to give you a pretty little stuffed 
canary, which sings like a nightingale. 

Elsbeth. How can he sing if he is stuffed ? 

Fantasia. He sings exquisitely. 

Elsbeth. Really you make fun of me relentlessly. 

Fantasia. Not at all. My canary has a little bird- 
organ inside of him : you touch a small spring in his 
left foot, and he sings all the new operas as well as 
Signora Grisi. 

Elsbeth. He is an invention of your own brain, I 
imagine. 

Fantasia. By no means. He is a court canary. 
There are plenty of very well brought up little girls 
whose ways of going on are in no wise different from 
his. They have a little spring under their left arm, 
a pretty little diamond spring, like a dandy's watch. 
Their tutor or governess touches the spring, and im- 
mediately you see their lips open with a gracious 
smile : a charming cascade of honeyed expressions 
flows with a sweet murmur, from their tongue, and all 
the social proprieties, like airy nymphs, begin to trip 
lightly round this miraculous fountain. The future hus- 
band opens his astonished eyes, the spectators murmur 
approvingly, and the father, replete with secret satis- 
faction, proudly contemplates his gold shoe-buckles. 

Elsbeth. You seem disposed to harp upon certain 



118 FAN TAB 10. 

subjects. Tell me, fool, what have the poor young 
girls done to you, that you satirize them so merci- 
lessly ? Have you no respect for the performance of 
a duty ? 

Fantasio. I have a high respect for ugliness ; that 
is why I have such profound respect for myself. 

Ehbeth. You seem to know more than you choose 
to admit, sometimes. Who are you, and whence do 
you come, to have been able in a single day to dis- 
cover mysteries which princes themselves will never 
suspect ? Is your nonsense aimed at me, or do you 
talk at random ? 

Fantasio. At random ; I talk at Random a great 
deal. He is my confidant. 

Ehbeth. He seems to have told you some things 
you ought never to have known. I am inclined to 
think that you watch me. 

Fantasio. Heaven he knows. What difference 
can it make ? 

Ehbeth. More than you can fancy. Not long ago, 
while I was trying on my veil in that room, I heard 
steps behind the arras. I am much mistaken if they 
were not yours. 

Fantasio. You may rest assured that whatever 
happened will remain between your handkerchief and 
myself. I am not more indiscreet than I am inquisi- 
tive. What pleasure could I have in your grief? 
What grief could I have in your pleasure ? You are 
one thing, I am the other. You are beautiful,.! ugly ; 



FANTASIO. 119 

you rich, I poor. You see that there is no connec- 
tion between us. What does it matter to you if two 
wheels have crossed for an instant upon the high-road 
of chance, which cannot follow the same track, nor 
mark the same dust ? Is it my fault if one of your 
tears dropped upon my cheek as I slept ? 

Ehbeth. You speak to me in the guise of a man 
whom I loved, and that is why I listen, despite myself. 
My eyes seem to see St. John, but perhaps you are 
only a spy. 

Fantasia. What good would it do me ? Even if 
your marriage have really cost you some tears, and 
that I have accidentally found it out, what should I 
gain by telling? They would not give me a gold 
piece for it, nor would they shut you up in the dark 
closet : I can very well understand how annoying it 
must be to marry the Prince of Mantua, but after all 
it is not I who am obliged to do so. To-morrow, or 
the day after, you will be on your way to Mantua with 
your wedding-gown, and I shall still be sitting on this 
stool in my old shoes. Why do you try to believe 
that I bear you malice ? I have no reason to wish for 
your death ; you never lent me money. 

Elsbeth. But if by accident you know what I wish 
nobody to know, had I not better turn you off for fear 
of more accidents ? 

Fantasia. Do you look upon me as the confidant 
in a tragedy, and fear that I shall dog your shadow 
with declamations ? Don't send me away, I beg of 



120 FANTASIO. 

you ; I find it very amusing here. See, here comes 
your companion brimming with mystery. The guar- 
antee that I shall not overhear you is, that I go forth- 
with to the buttery to eat a plover's wing which the 

major-domo has put aside for his wife, 

[Exit. Enter the COMPANION. 

The Com. My dear Elsbeth, do you know that 
something has happened ? 

Elsbeth. What do you mean ? You are trembling 
from head to foot. 

The Com. The prince is not the prince, nor the 
aide-de-camp either. It is a perfect fairy-tale. 

Elsbeth. What tangle is this ? 

The Com. Hush ! One of the prince's officers 
has just told me. The Prince of Mantua is a real 
Almaviva ; he is disguised and hidden among his 
staff; doubtless he wished to see and know you as 
they do in fairy tales. This worthy lord disguised 
himself like Lindor ; he who was presented to you as 
your future husband is only an aide-de-camp named 
Marinoni. 

Elsbeth. Impossible ! 

The Com. It is certain, a thousand times over. 
The worthy man is in disguise ; he cannot be recog- 
nized ; it is most extraordinary. 

Elsbeth. An officer told you this ? 

The Com. One of the prince's suite. You can ask 
him yourself. 

Elsbeth. And he did not point out the real Prince 
of Mantua among the suite ? 



FANTASIO. 121 

The Com. You must remember that the poor man 
was trembling at what he told me. He only confided 
the secret from a desire to make himself agreeable to 
you; and he knew that I would tell you. As to 
Marinoni, that is a fact; but he did not show me 
which was the true prince. 

Elsbeth. If this be true it gives me food for thought. 

Bring that officer here. 

[Enter a page. 

The Com. What's the matter, Flamel ? you are out 
of breath. 

The Page. Oh madam ! Something has happened 
which was like to kill us all of laughing. But I dare 
not speak before her highness. 

Elsbeth. Speak ; what has happened ? 

The Page. Just as the Prince of Mantua was enter- 
ing the court-yard on horseback at the head of his 
suite, his wig suddenly rose in the air and disap- 
peared. 

Elsbeth. Nonsense ! what do you mean ? 

The Page. May I die if it is not the truth, madam. 
The wig rose in the air on a fish-hook ; we found it in 
the buttery beside a broken bottle ; nobody knows who 
played the trick. But the prince is none the less 
furious, and swears that if the perpetrator is not put 
to death he will declare war against your royal father, 
and carry fire and sword through the land. 

Elsbeth. Let us hear the whole story, my dear ; my 
gravity begins to give way. \Enter a second 
Well, what now ? 



122 F ANT AS 10. 

Second Page. Madam, the king's fool is in prison ; 
it was he who fished off the prince's wig. 

Ehbeth. The fool in prison, and by the prince's 
order ? 

Second Page. Yes, your highness. 

Elsbeth. Come with me, dear mother ; I must speak 

with you. 

[Exit with her COMPANION. 



SCENE VI. 
Enter the PRINCE and MABINONI. 

The Prince. No, no, let us take off my disguise. 
It is high time I should give way. I shall not pass 
this over lightly. Blood and fire ! A royal wig on a 
fish-hook ! Are we among the barbarians of Siberia ? 
Do civilization and decorum still exist under the sun ? 
I am bursting with rage, and I feel as if my eyes 
would start from my head. 

Marinoni. You will ruin everything by your vio- 
lence. 

The Prince. And this father, this King of Bavaria, 
this monarch so lauded in all last year's almanacs, 
this man with so much propriety of manner, who ex- 
presses himself in such appropriate language, to burst 
out laughing when he saw his son-in-law's wig fly 
through the air ! For, after all, Marinoni, though it 
was your wig they carried off, still was it not the 



F ANT AS 10. 123 

Prince of Mantua's, as they thought you were he? 
When I reflect that if it had been I m my own flesh 
and blood, my wig might Ah ! but there is a provi- 
dence. When Heaven suddenly inspired me with the 
idea of disguising myself, when the thought, " I 
will disguise myself" darted through my brain, 
Destiny foresaw this catastrophe. This has saved the 
head that governs my people from the most intoler- 
able outrage. But, by heaven, all shall be known. 
My dignity has been in abeyance too long. Since 
every majesty, human and divine, has been mercilessly 
insulted and wounded, and no idea of good and evil 
is left among men, and the monarch of several thou- 
sands of subjects bursts out laughing, like a stable-boy, 
at the sight of a wig Marinoni, give me back my 
coat ! 

Marinoni [taking off his coat~\. I am ready to suf- 
fer a million tortures at my sovereign's command. 

The Prince. I know your devotion. Come, I 
shall tell the king what I think of him in plain lan- 
guage. 

Marinoni. And refuse the princess's hand ? Yet 
she looked at you in the most unmistakable manner 
all through dinner. 

The Prince. Do you think so ? I am in a maze of 
perplexity. Come along, though, let us go to the 
king. 

Marinoni [holding the coat~\. What shall I do, your 
highness ? 



124 FANTASIO. 

The Prince. Put it on again for an instant ; you 
shall give it back to me presently. They will be 
much more astonished to hear me take the tone 
that befits me, in this sober-colored garment. 

Exeunt. 



SCENE VII. A Prison. 
FANTASIO. 

Fantasia. I don't know whether there be a provi- 
dence or not, but it is amusing to think so. Here was 
a poor little princess, on the point of being married, 
against her will, to an unclean beast, a provincial booby, 
on whose head chance had dropped a crown as the 
eagle let fall the tortoise on the pate of ^Eschylus. 
Everything was ready, the candles lighted, the bride- 
groom powdered, the poor little victim shriven. She 
had dried the two bright tears I saw her shed this 
morning. Nothing further was needed save a few 
mummeries to consummate her life-long misery. The 
peace of two nations, the happiness of two kingdoms, 
was at stake, and I must needs take it into my 
head to dress myself up like a hunch-back, and come 
and get tipsy in our good king's buttery, to fish up the 
wig of his dear ally. Verily there is something super- 
human about me when I am drunk. So here is the 
marriage broken off and the whole question reopened. 
The Prince of Mantua demands my head in exchange 



F ANT AS 10. 125 

for his wig ; the King of Bavaria thinks the penalty 

rather severe, and will only consent to imprisonment. 

The Prince of Mantua is luckily so obstinate that he 

would rather be cut into pieces than recede, so the 

'princess remains single for this time at least. If here 

is not matter for an epic in twelve cantos I am no judge. 

Pope and Boileau have written admired verses on far 

tamer themes. Ah ! if I were a poet how I would 

paint that scene of the wig flying through the air ! 

But he who achieves such feats disdains to record 

them, so posterity will have to do without it. 

[He falk atleep. Enter ELSBETH and her COMPANION with a lamp. 

Elsleth. He is asleep. Shut the door softly. 

The Com. See, there can be no doubt ; he has 
taken off his wig, and his deformity has disappeared 
too ; this is he, as his people behold him in his tri- 
umphal chariot, the noble Prince of Mantua ! 

Elsbeth. Yes, it is he ! my curiosity is satisfied ; I 
only wish to see his face ; let me bend over him. 
[She takes the lampJ\ Psyche, beware of the drop of 
oil! 

The Com. He is as beautiful as a picture of our 
Lord! 

Elsbeth. Why did you give me so many novels 
and fairy tales to read ? Why did you sow the seeds 
of so many strange and mystic flowers in my poor 
brain ? 

The Com. How agitated you are, standing there 
on tiptoe. 



126 FANTAS10. 

Elsbeth. He wakes : let us go. 

Fantasia [waking]. Am I dreaming ?' I hold the 
hem of a white robe ! 

Elsbeth. Let me go, let me go. 

Fantasia. You here, princess ! If it is to bring the* 
fool's pardon that you come so angelically, let me put 
on my wig and hump again ; it will not take a minute. 

The Com. Ah prince ! it ill becomes you to impose 
upon us thus ! Do not resume the disguise we know 
all about. 

Fantasia. Prince ! where is he ? 

The Com. Why dissemble ? 

Fantasio. I am not dissembling the least in the 
world. Under what delusion do you call me prince ? 

The Com. I know my duty toward your highness. 

Fantasio. Madam, I entreat you to explain this 
good lady's words. Is there really some absurd mis- 
take, or am I the butt of a jest ? 

Ekbeth. Why do you ask, when you are jesting 
yourself? 

Fanfasio. Can it be that I am a prince by some 
accident ? Does anybody suspect my mother's honor ? 

Elsbeth. Who are you, if not the Prince of Man- 
tua? 

Fantasio. My name is Fantasio ; I am a citizen of 
Munich. 

[He thowt her a Utter. 

Elsbeth. A citizen of Munich ! And why did you 
disguise yourself? What are you doing here? 



FANTASIO. 127 

! Fa.nta.sio [falling on his knees}. Madam. I entreat 
your pardon ! 

Elsbeth. What do you mean ? Get up, man, and 
be gone ! I remit the punishment which you deserve, 
perhaps. What impelled you to such an act ? 

Fantasio. I cannot mention the motive which 
brought me here. 

Elsbeth. You cannot tell it? But I choose to 
know it. 

Fantasio. Excuse me ; I dare not confess it. 

The Com. Let us go, Elsbeth ; do not expose your- 
self to hear unfitting language ; this man is a robber, 
or some insolent wretch who will make love to you. 

Elsbeth. I insist upon knowing why you assumed 
this costume ? 

Fantasio. Spare me, I entreat of you. 

Elsbeth. Speak, or I close this door upon you for 
ten years. 

Fantasio. Madam, I am hampered with debts ; my 
creditors have a warrant out against me ; at this very 
moment my furniture is under the hammer, and if I 
were not in this prison I should be in another. They 
were to arrest me yesterday evening; not knowing 
where to pass the night, nor how to keep out of the 
way of the sheriff, I took it into my head to don this 
dress and take refuge at the king's feet. If you set 
me at liberty they will lay hold of me. My uncle is 
a miser who lives on potatoes and radishes, and leaves 
me to starve to death in every tavern in the kingdom. 



128 FANTASIO. 

Since you insist upon knowing, I owe twenty thousand . 
crowns. 

Elsbeth. Is all this true ? 

Fantasia, If I lie, may I have to pay them. 

[A noise of horses is heard mthotit. 

Tlie Com. There are horses passing! It is the 
king himself. If I could but beckon to a page. [She 
calls from the window.'] Ho there, Flamel! where 
are you going ? 

The Page [without]. The Prince of Mantua is set- 
ting out. 

The Com. The Prince of Mantua ! 

The Page. Yes, war is declared. There has been 
a terrible scene between him and the king, before the 
whole court, and the princess's marriage is broken off. 

Elsbeth. Do you hear that, Mr. Fantasio? You 
have broken off my marriage. 

The Com. Great heavens ! The Prince of Mantua 
going and I have not seen him ! 

Elsbeth. What a calamity ! War is declared. 

Fantasio. Does your highness call that a calamity ? 
Would you rather have a husband who goes t:i v.v.r 
about his wig ? Ah madam, if there is a war we shall 
know what to do with our limbs ; our loungers will 
put on their uniforms ; I shall take my fowling-piece, 
if it is not sold. We shall have a trip to Italy, and if 
you ever enter Mantua it shall be as a real queen, and 
no need for any torches save our swords ! 

Elsbeth. Fantasio, will you continue to be my 



FANTASIO. 129 

father's jester? I will pay your twenty thousand 
crowns. 

Fantasia. I would with all my heart, but, to tell the 
truth, if I were forced to do so, I should jump out of 
the window some fine morning and run away. 

Elsbeth. But why? St. John is dead; we must 
positively have a fool. 

Fantasio. I like the trade as well as another, but I 
am incapable of following any trade. If you consider 
my having rid you of the Prince of Mantua worth 
twenty thousand crowns,-give them to me ; don't pay 
my debts. A gentleman without debts would not 
know what to do with himself. It never entered my 
head to be out of debt. 

Ehbeth. Well then, I will give them to you ; but 
take the key of my garden, and the next time you are 
tired of being hunted by your creditors, come and hide 
among the field-flowers where I found you this morn- 
ing. Be sure to wear your wig and motley dress ; 
never appear before me without your hump and bells, 
for it is thus that you please me ; you shall be my 
jester again for as long as you like, and then you 
can go about your own affairs. Now go, the door is 
open. 

The Com. And the Prince of Mantua has really 
gone without my seeing him ! 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

IN TWO ACTS. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

THE BARON. 
PERDICAN, his son. 
DOCTOR BLAZIUS, Perdican's Tutor. 
DOCTOR BRIDAINE, the Village Priest. 
CAMILLE, the Baron's Niece. 
DAME PLUCHE, her Governess. 
ROSETTE, Camillas Foster-sister. 
PEASANTS, SERVANTS, etc. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

IN TWO ACTS. 

* 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. Village green before the gates of a country- 
seat. 

DOCTOR BLAZIUS, DAME PLUCHE, Chonu. 

Chorus. Lo! through the flowery fields comes 
Doctor Blazius, nodding gently on his mule, in bran- 
new clothes, with his ink-horn by his side. He sways 
upon his round belly like a baby on a bolster. All 
hail, Doctor Blazius ! you come in vintage-time, like 
an antique amphora. 

Doctor Blazius. Whoever wishes to hear great 
news, bring me a glass of wine. 

Chorus. Here is our biggest bowl ; drink, Doctor 
Blazius, the wine is good ; you can talk afterwards. 

Doctor Blazius. Know then, my children, that the 
Baron's son, young Perdican, has just come of age 
and taken his degree in Paris. He is coming back 
to his father's house this very day, with his mouth full 
of such fine and flowery phrases that half the time 



134 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

nobody knows how to reply. This accomplished 
person is like a golden book ; there is not a blade of 
grass of which he cannot tell you the Latin name, 
and when it rains or blows he can explain exactly 
why. You would open your eyes to see one of the 
parchments which he has decorated with his own 
hands in every shade of ink. In short, from head to 
foot he is like a rare diamond, and so I shall have the 
honor to tell the baron. Of course you perceive that 
this reflects some credit upon me, having been his 
preceptor since he was four years old ; so, my good 
friends, pray bring me a chair that I may dismount 
from this mule without breaking my neck, the brute 
is a little restive, and I should not mind drinking 
another mouthful before I go in. 

Chorus. Drink and be merry Doctor Blazius. We 
have known little Perdican ever since he was born, 
and it was hardly worth while to tell us so much about 
him, especially as he is coming himself. We only 
hope we may still find the child in the man. 

Doctor Blazius. Good lack ! the bowl is empty ! 
I did not mean to drink it all. Farewell ; as I 
jogged along, I prepared a few simple phrases, which 
will gratify the baron ; now I am going to ring. 

[Exit. 

Chorus. Here comes Dame Pluche plodding up the 
hill on her tired mule ; her groom, more dead than 
alive himself, cudgels the poor beast might and main, 
but it only shakes its head and munches a thistle. She 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 135 

tells her beads with her skinny hands, and her long 
bony legs twitch with rage the while. Good day, 
Dame Pluche, you come like an autumn fever, with 
the wind that turns the woods yellow. 

Dame Pluche. A glass of water, you boors ! A 
glass of vinegar and water ! 

Chorus. Whence do you come, Dame Pluche, my 
dear ? Your false front is covered with dust, it is a 
ruined wig, and your chaste garments have ridden up 
to your venerable knees. 

Dame Pluche. Know then, rustics, that your 
master's niece, the beautiful Camille, is coming home 
to-day. She has left her convent at the baron's ex- 
press order, to receive duly the handsome fortune her 
mother left her. Her education is finished, Heaven 
be praised, and those who have the privilege of seeing 
her will breathe an atmosphere of discretion and 
devoutness. There never was anything so pure, so 
angelic, so lamb-like, and so dove-like as this precious 
little nun. Heaven guard and guide her ! Amen. 
Stand aside, clodpoles, my legs feel swollen. 

Chorus. Smooth yourself out, good Pluche, and 
when you say your prayers ask for rain ; our harvest- 
fields are as dry as your bones. 

Dame Pluche. You have brought me water in a 
bowl that smells of the kitchen ! Give me a hand to 
dismount ; you are a pack of louts and bumpkins. 

[Exit. 

Chorus. Let us put on our Sunday clothes to be 



136 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

ready when the baron summons us. There's junket- 
ing in the wind to-day. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. The Baron's Study. 
Enter BARON, DOCTOR BRIDAINK, and DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Baron. You are an old friend, Doctor Bridaine ; 
let me present you to Doctor Blazius, my son's tutor. 
My son was just one-and-twenty yesterday morning 
at eight minutes past twelve; he is bachelor of arts, 
and graduated with first honors. 

Doctor Blazius \Jbowing~]. In the four great branches, 
my lord : philosophy, Roman law, canon law, and let- 
ters. 

Baron. Go to your room, my dear Blazius, my son 
will be here anon ; make yourself comfortable, and 
come back to us when the dinner-bell rings. 

[Exit DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Doctor Bridaine. Shall I tell your lordship what I 
think ? Your son's tutor smells strong of wine. 

Baron. Impossible ! 

Doctor Bridaine. I would stake my life upon it ; 
he was quite close to me just now, and he smelt fright- 
fully of wine. 

Baron. Don't say that again ; I tell you it is im- 
possible. [Enter DAME PLUCHE.] Ah ! here you are, 
good Dame Pluche ; my niece is with you of course. 

Dame Pluche. She will be here anon, your lord- 
ship. I came on a little in advance. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 137 

Baron. Doctor Bridaine, my old friend, let me 
present you to Dame Pluche, my niece's governess. 
My niece reached the age of eighteen yesterday even- 
ing at seven o'clock. She has been brought up in the 
best convent in France. Dame Pluche, let me present 
my friend, Doctor Bridaine, our parish-priest. 

Dame Pluche [courtesying~\. In the best convent 
in France, your lordship, and, I might venture to add, 
is the best Christian in the convent. 

Baron. Pray make haste and adjust your dress, 
Dame Pluche, my niece will be here soon, I hope, and 
be ready at dinner-time. 

[Exit DAME PLUCHE. 

Doctor Bridaine. This elderly gentlewoman seems 
full of unction. 

Baron. Full of unction and compunction, doctor ; 
her virtue is inflexible. 

Doctor Bridaine. But the tutor smelt of wine, I 
am positive. 

Baron. Doctor Bridaine, there are times when I 
almost doubt your friendship. Do you undertake to 
contradict me ? Not another word on the subject ! 
I have a plan to marry my son to my niece ; they are 
a ready-made pair ; their education has cost me six 
thousand crowns. 

Doctor Bridaine. You must get a dispensation. 

Baron. It is in my secretary, Bridaine ! Now, my 
good friend, you know how happy I am ! You know 
what a horror I have always had of solitude : but my 



138 NO TRIFLING WITS LOVE. 

position and the dignity of my office compel me to 
remain in this country-house three months every 
winter and three every summer. One can do noth- 
ing for the happiness of mankind in general, and one's 
dependants in particular, without occasionally giving 
strict orders to admit nobody. The seclusion needful 
for a statesman is rigid and severe indeed, and what 
a pleasure it will be to have my two children near me 
to cheer the gloomy depression to which I have been 
a prey ever since his majesty graciously appointed me 
collector. 

Doctor Bridaine. Will the wedding take place 
here or in Paris ? 

Baron. I expected that question ; I was sure of it, 
Bridaine ! Well, what would you say if those hands, 
your own hands, don't look at them so piteously, 
Bridaine, were destined to bestow the benediction 
upon the consummation of my dearest hopes ? Eh ? 

Doctor Bridaine. I cannot speak ; I am dumb 
with gratitude. 

Baron. Look out of the window and see my peo- 
ple crowding to the gateway ! My two children have 
arrived simultaneously, a most auspicious coincidence ! 
I have arranged everything ; my niece is to be shown 
in by this door on the left, my son by that on the right. 
What do you think of it ? I shall enjoy seeing how 
they meet and what they say to each other ; six thou- 
sand crowns is no trifle ; it will not do to have it 
thrown away. Besides, these children have loved each 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 139 

other dearly from their very cradles. Bridaine, I have 
an idea. 

Doctor Bridaine. What is it ? 

Baron. During dinner, without seeming to make 
a point of it, you understand, while the wine goes 
round, you understand Latin, Bridaine ? 

Doctor Bridaine. Ita aedepol, by Jupiter I should 
think I do. 

Baron. I should like you to challenge the young 
fellow before his cousin, discreetly, you know ; it 
cannot fail to have a good effect ; make him speak 
Latin a little, not during dinner exactly, that 
would be tiresome, for my part I don't understand a 
word of it, but at dessert, you know. 

Doctor Bridaine. If your lordship does not under- 
stand it, probably neither does your niece. 

Baron. That's an additional motive. Don't you 
know a woman always admires what she does not 
understand ? Where have you lived, Bridaine ? Your 
argument is absurd. 

Doctor Bridaine. I know little of women, but it 
seems to me it must be difficult to admire what one 
does not understand. 

Baron. I know them, Bridaine, I know the be- 
witching and inexplicable creatures well ! Depend 
upon it, they like nothing so much as having dust 
thrown in their eyes, and the more you throw the 
wider they open them ! [Enter PERDICAK R. and CA- 
MILLE L.] Welcome, children! welcome home, rny 



140 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE, 

dear Camille, my dear Perdican ! kiss me and kiss 
each other. 

Perdican. How -are you, father? and you, dear 
sister ? What joy ! How happy I am ! 

Camille. I hope you are both well. 

Perdican. How tall you are, Camille ! and beauti- 
ful as the day. 

Baron. When did you leave Paris, Perdican ? 

Perdican. On Wednesday, I think, or Tuesday. 
Why, you are a woman ! Then I am a man, I suppose. 
It seems but yesterday that you were only so high. 

Baron. You must be tired ; it is a long journey, and 
the day is warm. 

Perdican. Bless me, no ! Father, how pretty Ca- 
mille is ! 

Baron. Come, Camille, give your cousin a kiss. 

Camille. Excuse me. 

Baron. A compliment deserves a kiss ; kiss her, 
Perdican. 

Perdican. As my cousin draws back when I offer 
my hand, I too must say, excuse me. Love may 
steal a kiss, but friendship may not. 

Camitte. Neither friendship nor love should accept 
what it cannot return. 

Baron [aside to DOCTOR BRIDAINE]. Here's a 
bad beginning ! 

Doctor Bridaine [aside to the BARON]. Too much 
prudery is undoubtedly a fault, but marriage over- 
comes many scruples. 



NO TJUFL1NG WITH LOVE. 141 

Baron [as before}. I am annoyed, hurt. Her 
answer displeases me : ' Excuse me.' Did you notice 
that she crossed herself? Come away, I want to talk 
.to you. I am pained to the last degree. This mo- 
ment, to which I have been looking forward so long, 
is a complete disappointment. I am vexed and 
irritated. It is a devilish bad beginning. 

Doctor Bndaine. Say something to them ; they are 
turning their backs upon each other. 

Baron. Well, children, what are you thinking 
about? What are you doing before that picture, 
Camille ?' 

Camitte. What a fine portrait, uncle ! She was a 
great-aunt of ours, I think ? 

Baron. Yes, my dear, your great-grandmother, or 
rather your great-grandfather's sister, for the good 
lady never contributed I believe to the increase 
of the family, except by her prayers. She was a 
very holy woman. 

Camille. Yes, yes, she was a saint ! It is my aunt 
Isabel. How becoming the religious dress is to her ! 

Baron. And what are you about with that flower- 
pot, Perdican ? 

Perdican. What a lovely flower, father ; it is a 
heliotrope. 

Baron. You jest ! it is no biggei 4 than a fly. 

Perdican. Yet this little flower no bigger than a 
fly has its worth. 

Doctor Bridaine. Undoubtedly the young scholar 



142 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

is right. Ask him to what order and class it belongs, 
what are its component elements, whence it derives its 
sap and color ; he will enrapture you by analyzing all 
the properties of the plant from the root to the blos- 
som. 

Perdican. I don't know all that, reverend sir : I 
know it smells sweet, and that's enough. 



SCENE III. The green before the gates* 
Enter CHORUS. 

A number of things amuse me and excite my curi- 
osity just now. Come, let us all sit down under this 
walnut-tree. Two redoubtable eaters have encoun- 
tered each other at the baron's house, Doctor Bri- 
daine and Doctor Blazius. Have you never observed 
that when two men of the same stamp chance to meet, 
equally gross, equally stupid, with the same vices 
and passions, they must needs adore or execrate 
each other ? and since it is known that opposites at- 
tract, and a tall, dried-up man fancies a little, fat one, 
or fair people are fond of dark ones, I foresee a con- 
test between the tutor and the priest. Both are 
equally armed with impudence, both have a tun for a 
stomach ; they are not only greedy, but fond of good 
living, and they will quarrel at dinner, not only about 
the quantity but the quality of their food. The fish is 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 143 

small ; what is to be done ? and in any case a carp's 
tongue cannot be divided, nor can a carp have two 
tongues. Item, they are both great talkers, but to 
be sure, if it comes to the worst, they can both talk 
at once without listening to each other. Doctor Bri- 
daine has already made several attempts to ask young 
Perdican a learned question, but the tutor has frowned ; 
he does not wish anybody but himself to exhibit his 
pupil. They are both in holy orders ; one gives him- 
self airs about his parish, the other about his post. 
Doctor Blazius is the son's director ; Doctor Bridaine 
the father's. I can see them now, with their elbows 
on the table, cheeks flushed, eyes starting, wagging their 
double-chins with rage. They stare at each other 
from head to foot and begin by slight skirmishes ; war 
is declared, and they exchange every sort of rudeness. 
To crown all, Dame Pluche is seated between the two 
gluttons, and nudges them alternately with her sharp 
elbows to keep them at a distance. Now dinner is 
over and the great gateway is thrown open ; they are 
all coming out ; let us withdraw. 

[Exeunt. Enter BARON and DAME PLBCHE. 

Baron. Respected Pluche, I am out of spirits. 

Dame Pluche. Is it possible, my lord ? 

Baron. Yes, Pluche, it is possible. For a long, 
long time I have expected I had even put it down in 
my memorandum-book that this would be the hap- 
piest day of my life, yes, my good lady, the happiest. 
You know that I have always intended to marry my 



144 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

son to my niece ; it was decided, determined upon ; 
I had spoken to Bridaine about it ; and I see, or fancy 
I see, that these children treat each other coldly ; they 
have not exchanged a word. 

Dame Plucfie. Here they come, my lord. Do they 
know your intentions ? 

Baron. I have privately hinted it to them. I think, 
as they are together, it would be a good plan to sit 
down under these friendly trees and leave them alone 
for a few minutes. 

[Retires with DAME PLUCHE. Enter CAMILLE and PERDICAN. 

Perdican. Camille, do you know there was nothing 
pretty in refusing me a kiss ? 

Camille. I can't help it ; that is my way. 

Perdican. "Will you take my arm and stroll 
through the village ? 

Camille. No, I am tired. 

Perdican. Don't you care to see the meadows 
again ? Do you remember our boating-parties ? 
Come down to the mills, and I will row you, and 
you shall steer. 

Camille. I don't care about it, thank you. 

Perdican. You wound me to the quick! What, 
not one recollection, Camille ? Not one heart-throb 
for the scenes of our childhood, and all the good old 
times that were so sweet and full of delicious non- 
sense ? Won't you come and look at the path by 
which we used to go to the farm ? 
\. Camille. Not this evening. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 145 

Perdican. Not this evening ! Then when will you 
come ? Is not our whole past life there ? 

Camille. I am no longer young enough to play 
with dolls nor old enough to live in the past. 

Perdican. What do you mean ? 

Camille. I mean that I don't care for childish 
recollections. 

Perdican. Do they bore you ? 

Camille. Yes, they bore me. 

Perdican. Poor child ! I pity you sincerely. 

[Exeunt by different sides. Enter BARON and DAME PLUCHB. 

Baron. You saw and heard, good Pluche ! I ex- 
pected celestial harmony, and it is like being at a con- 
cert where the violin plays " Joys that we've tasted,' ' 
while the flute plays " God save the King" Fancy 
the discord ! Well, that is a perfect illustration of the 
condition of my heart. 

Dame Pluche. I must say that I cannot blame 
Camille ; in my opinion nothing is in worse taste than 
boating-parties. 

Baron. Are you in earnest ? 

Dame Pluche. My lord, no young girl, with any 
self-respect, would venture upon the water. 

Baron. But pray remember, Dame Pluche, that 
she and her cousin are to be married, and that being 
the case 

Dame Pluche. The laws of society do not permit 
of her steering, and it is very unbecoming to leave 
terra firma with a young man. 
10 



146 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Baron. But I tell you but I repeat 

Dame Pluche. That is my opinion. 

Baron. Are you out of your senses ? Indeed, you 
will force me to say there are terms which I don't 
wish to make use of which are offensive But 
you really in short, if I did not exercise the greatest 
self-command You are an old goose, Pluche, and I 
don't know what to make of you ! 

{Exit. 



SCENE IV. The village-green. 
CHORUS, PERDICAN. 

Perdican. Good-day, old friends ! Do you know 
me? 

Chorus. My lord, you look like a child we loved 
dearly. 

Perdican. You used to carry me over the brooks 
on your back, trot me on your knees, take me behind 
you on horseback, and crowd together to make room 
for me at the farm supper. 

Chorus. Yes, your lordship, we remember it all ; 
you were the greatest scamp and the dearest boy on 
earth. 

Perdican. Then why don't you give me a hug, in- 
stead of bowing as if I were a stranger ? 

Chorus. God bless you, child 6f our heart, we all 
long to take you in our arms, but we have grown old, 
and your lordship has grown up. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 147 

Perdican. Yes, it is ten years since I have seen 
you, and one day suffices to change everything under 
the sun. I have shot up a few feet nearer the sky, 
and you have bent a few inches nearer to the grave. 
Your heads have grown white, your step has grown 
slack, you can no longer carry him whom you used to 
call your child. It is my turn to be a father to you, 
you who used to be like fathers to me. 

Chorus. Your return home is a happier day than 
the day of your birth ! There is more joy in having 
what one loves back again than in welcoming a new- 
born babe. 

Perdican. Ah ! here is my favorite valley, my 
walnut-trees, my green foot-path, and my little 
spring ! Here are all my by-gone days as fresh and 
full of life as ever ; here is the mystic region of my 
childish dreams ! Oh home, home ! Indefinable 
word ! is not man born for his own corner of the 
earth, there to build his nest and live his little day ! 

Chorus. "We hear that your lordship is very 
learned. 

Perdican. So they say. The sciences are fine 
things, but these fields and trees proclaim something 
finer still, how to forget all that one has learned. 

Chorus. There has been more than one change 
since you went away. Some of the girls have mar- 
ried, and young men have gone to the war. 

Perdican. You must tell me all about it. I expect 
to find many changes, but to tell the truth I don't 



148 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

want to know of them yet. How small this basin is ! 
In old times it used to look immense ! I carried 
away the impression of an ocean and vast forests, and 
I only find a drop of water and some blades of grass. 
Who is the young girl singing at her window behind 
those trees ? 

Chorus. Rosette, your cousin Camille's foster- 
sister. 

Perdican. Come down quick, Rosette, and come 
here. 

Rosette ['as she enters']. Yes, your lordship. 

Perdican. Are you married, child ? They told me 
so. 

Rosette. Oh no. 

Perdican. And why not ? You are the prettiest 
girl in the village. We must find you a husband, my 
dear. 

Chorus. Your lordship, she wishes to die a 
maiden. 

Perdican. Is that true, Rosette ? 

Rosette. Oh no indeed. 

Perdican. Your sister Canaille has come. Have 
you seen her ? 

Rosette. No, she has not been here yet. 

Perdican. Go, make haste and put on your best 
gown, and come up to supper at the hall. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 149 

SCENE V. An apartment. 
Enter the BARON and DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Doctor Blazius. My lord, I have a word to say to 
you ; your parish priest is a sot. 

Baron. Oh fie ! it can't be. 

Doctor Blazius. I assure you it is so ; he drank 
three bottles of wine at dinner. 

Baron. That was immoderate. 

Doctor Blazius. When we came out from dinner 
he walked on the flower-borders. 

Baron. On the borders ? I am amazed ! It is very 
strange ! Drank three bottles of wine at dinner and 
walked on the borders ! I can't understand it. Why 
didn't he walk on the gravel ? 

Doctor Blazius. Because he could not walk straight. 

Baron [aside]. I begin to think Bridaine was 
right this morning. Blazius smells of wine most 
offensively. 

Doctor Blazius. Moreover, he eat enormously ; he 
could hardly speak. 

Baron. To tell the truth I noticed that myself. 

Doctor Blazius. He spoke a few words of Latin, and 
they were all solecisms. He is a depraved man, your 
lordship. 

Baron [aside']. Pah ! Blazius smells intolerably 1 
[_Aloud~]. Doctor, I have other things to think of than 
what is eaten or drunk at my table. I am not the 
butler. 



150 NO .TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Doctor Blazius. God forbid I should annoy your 
lordship. Your wine is very good. 
Baron. My cellar is good. 

[Enter DOCTOR BKIDAINK. 

Doctor Bridaine. My lord, your son is on the green 
followed by all the scape-graces in the village. 

Baron. Impossible ! 

Doctor Bridaine. I saw him with my own eyes. He 
was picking up pebbles to skim on the water. 

Baron. Pebbles to skim on the water ! I am be- 
wildered ; all my ideas are upset What you say is 
absurd, Bridaine ; who ever heard of a bachelor of 
arts skipping stones ? 

Doctor Bridaine. Look out of the window, my lord, 
and you can see for yourself. 

Baron [aside]. Good heavens ! Blazius was right ! 
Bridaine can't walk straight. 

Doctor Bridaine. Look, your lordship ; there he is 
beside the basin with his arm around one of the vil- 
lage-girls. 

Baron. One of the village-girls ! Has my son 
come home to corrupt my tenantry ? His arm round 
a village girl, and all the scape-graces in the place at 
his heels ! I shall lose my wits. 

Doctor Bridaine. This calls for vengeance. 

Baron. Everything is ruined, ruined past all 
hope ! I am ruined ! Blazius smells horribly of wine, 
Bridaine can't walk straight, and my son is seducing 
the village-girls and skipping stones on the pond. 

[Beit. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 151 


ACT II. 

SCENE I. The Garden. 
Enter DOCTOR BLAZHJS and PERDICAN. 

Doctor Blazius. My lord, your father is in despair. 

Perdican. And why ? 

Doctor Blazius. You are aware that he had planned- 
a marriage between you and your cousin. 

Perdican. Well ? I should like nothing better. 

Doctor Blazius. But his lordship thinks that your 
characters do not harmonize. 

Perdican. That's unlucky, as I can't remake mine. 

Doctor Blazius. And will you let the marriage fall 
through on that account ? 

Perdican. I repeat that I should like nothing 
better than to marry Camille. Go tell my father so. 

Doctor Blazius. I go, my lord ; here comes your 

cousin. 

[Exit. Enter CAMILLE. 

Perdican. Up so early, cousin ? I am still of the 
same opinion that I was yesterday ; you are as pretty 
as a rose. 

Camille. Perdican, let us be serious. Your father 
wishes us to be married. I don't know what your sen- 
timents are on this subject, but I think it right to tell 
you that my mind is made up. 

Perdican. Unlucky for me, if you don't like me. 



152 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Camitte. , I like you as well I do anybody ; I do not 
mean to marry. There is nothing in that to wound 
your pride. 

Perdican. I have nothing to do with pride ; I care 
for neither its pleasures nor its pains. 

Camille. I came hither only to receive my mother's 
property ; to-morrow I go back to the convent. 

Perdican. You are frank, at least ; shake hands 
and let us be friends. 

Camille. I dislike shaking hands. 

Perdican [taking her hand~\. Give me your hand, 
Camille, do. What are you afraid of? You don't 
wish to marry me ; well we won't be married, but 
that is no reason for our hating each other. Are we 
not brother and sister ? When your mother directed 
this marriage in her will, she wished to insure our 
lasting attachment, that was all. Why should we be 
married ? Here is your hand and here is mine ; we 
need no priest to join them in a clasp that shall hold 
till our latest breath. We need God's blessing alone. 

Camitte. I am glad that my refusal is a matter of 
indifference to you. 

Perdican. It is not a matter of indifference, Ca- 
mille. Your love would have been the joy of my life, 
but your friendship will console me for its loss. Do 
not go away to-morrow ; yesterday you would not 
stroll round the garden because you looked upon me 
as a husband who was being imposed upon you. 
Stay a few days and let me see that our past life is 
not utterly dead in your heart. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 153 

Camille. I am obliged to go. 

Perdican. Why ? 

Camille. That is a secret. 

Perdican. Are you in love with somebody else ? 

Camille. No, but I must go. 

Perdican. Positively ? 

Camille. Yes, positively. 

Perdican. Well then, farewell. I should have 
liked to spend a friendly hour or two with you under 
the chestnut-trees of our little wood, but as you do not 
wish it, we will say no more about it ; farewell, dear 
child. 

[Exit. Enter DAME PLUOHE. 

Camille. Dame Pluche, is everything ready ? Can 
we start to-morrow ? Has my guardian done looking 
over the accounts ? 

Dame Pluche. Yes, dear, spotless dove. The baron 
called me an old goose last night, and I am only too 
glad to be off. 

Camille. Stop, I want you to give my cousin Per- 
dican this line from me, before dinner. 

Dame Pluche. Good heavens ! is it possible ? Send 
a note to a young man ! 

Camille. Was I not to be his wife ? I may certainly 
write to my betrothed. 

Dame Pluche. Lord Perdican has just left you; 
what can you have to write to him about? Your 
betrothed, did you say, in Heaven's name ? Have 
you forgotten Jesus ? 



154 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Camitte. Do as I tell you, and have everything 
ready for our journey. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. The dining-room. Servants are setting 
the table. 

Enter DOCTOR BKIDAINE. 

Doctor Bridaine. Yes, they are going to give him 
the place of honor again to-day. This seat beside the 
baron, which has been mine so long, will be the tutor's 
prey. Oh wretched man that I am ! An ass, a shame- 
less drunkard, shoves me down to the foot of the 
table ! The butler will pour out the first glass of Mal- 
aga for him, the dishes will be half cold before they 
reach me, and the tit-bits will be gone ; there will be 
no sauce left round the partridge. Oh holy Catholic 
Church ! There was a reason for giving him the place 
yesterday; he had just arrived, and it was the first 
time for a number of years that he had sat at this 
table. Good Lord, how he ate ! He left nothing but 
the bones of the roast fowl. I will not swallow such 
an affront. Farewell, ancient arm-chair, in which I 
have so often leaned back, replete with savory food ! 
Farewell, rare bottles ! fragrant fumes of well-cooked 
venison ! Farewell, sumptuous table ! noble dining- 
hall where I shall never say grace again ! I go back 
to my parish ; I shall never more be seen among the 
crowd of guests; for, like Caesar, I choose to be first 
in the village rather than second in Rome. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 155 

SCENE III. Grass-plat before a cottage. 
Enter ROSETTE and PERDICAN. 

Perdican. Come and take a walk, as your mother 
is not at home. 

Rosette. Do you think all these kisses do me any 
good? 

Perdican. What harm can they do ? I would kiss 
you before your mother. Are you not Camille's sis- 
ter ? Am I not your brother as much as hers ? 

Rosette. Words are words, but kisses are kisses. 
I am not clever, and I find it out whenever I try 
to say anything. Fine ladies know what is meant if 
their right hand is kissed, or their left ; a father kisses 
one on the forehead, brothers on the cheek, one's 
sweetheart on the lips ; as for me, everybody kisses 
me on both cheeks, and I don't like it. 

Perdican. How pretty you are, child. 

Rosette. But you must not be angry. How low- 
spirited you are this morning. Is your engagement 
broken off? 

Perdican. The villagers remember that they used 
to love- me ; the trees of the wood, nay, the very 
farm- dogs remember it, but Camille does not. And 
when does your marriage come off, Rosette ? 

Rosette. Don't let us talk about that. Let us talk 
about the beautiful weather, and the flowers, and your 
horses, and my caps. 



156 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Perdican. Of anything you like, anything that 
will not banish from your lips that celestial smile 

which I respect more than my life. 

[Kisses her. 

Rosette. You respect my smile, but it don't seem 
to me you respect my lips much. Why look ! here's 
a drop of rain on my hand, and yet the sky is clear. 

Perdican. I beg your pardon. 

Rosette. Oh, what have I done to make you cry ? 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. A room in the great house. 
Enter the BARON and DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Doctor Blazius. My lord, I have something very 
odd to tell you. Just now I happened to be in the 
buttery in the gallery I mean ; what should I be 
doing in the buttery ? where I happened to find a 
bottle of wine, a decanter of water I mean ; how 
could I find a bottle of wine in the gallery ? well, I 
was in the act of swallowing a glass of wine of 
water I should say to pass the time, and chancing 
to look out of the window between two flower vases 
which struck me as modern, though they are in imita- 
tion of the Etruscan 

Baron. What an insufferable style of conversation 
you have adopted, Blazius ! Nobody can understand 
you. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 157 

Doctor Blazius. I beg your lordship to listen to 
me a moment. As I was saying, I was looking out of 
the window, don't lose your temper, for Heaven's 
sake, your lordship, the honor of your family is in- 
volved. 

Baron. The honor of my family ! What am I to 
understand by this ? The honor of my family, Blazius ? 
Why, do you know there are thirty-seven males and 
nearly as many females of us, counting Paris and the 
provinces. 

Doctor Blazius. Permit me to continue. As I 
was drinking a glass of wine of water I mean 
to assist my digestion, I saw Dame Pluche go by, all 
out of breath. 

Baron. Out of breath, Blazius ? That is not very 
likely. 

Doctor Blazius. And at her side your niece Ca- 
mille, red with anger. 

Baron. Who was red with anger, my niece, or 
Dame Pluche ? 

Doctor Blazius. Your niece, my lord. 

Baron. My niece ! This is monstrous ! And pray 
how do you know it was with anger ? She might 
have twenty reasons for being red. She may have 
been running after butterflies in the garden. 

Doctor Blazius. I cannot affirm that she had not ; 
perhaps she had ; but she exclaimed vehemently : 
" Go find him ! do as I bid you ! you are a fool ! It 
shall be done, do you hear ? " And she rapped Dame 



158 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Pluche on the elbow with her fan, while at each 
adjuration the respected lady made a hop in the 
clover. 

Baron. In the clover ! And what did my niece's 
governess say to her folly, for such conduct de- 
serves no other name. 

Doctor Blazius. She replied : " I won't go ! I 
can't find him ! He is making love to the village- 
girls and the wenches who look after the turkeys. I 
am too old to begin to carry love-letters. Thank God 
my hands have always been clean of such work till 
now ! " And as she spoke she crushed a three- 
cornered note in her hands. 

Baron. I can make nothing of it all. Why should 
Dame Pluche crush a three-cornered note in her 
hands and hop in the clover ? 

Doctor Blazius. Don't you see what it all means, 
my lortl ? 

Baron. No indeed, my good friend, I don't under- 
stand a word of it. It is all very unbecoming conduct, 
but seems as causeless as it is inexcusable. 

Doctor Blazius. It means that your niece has a 
clandestine correspondence. 

Baron. What ! Do you recollect to whom you 
are speaking ? Weigh your words, sir ! 

Doctor Blazius. I do weigh my words in the celes- 
tial scales in which I shall be weighed myself at the 
last day, and there is not a false one among them. 
Your niece has a clandestine correspondence. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 159 

Baron. But consider, my dear friend, it is not 
possible. 

Doctor Blazius. Then why did she give her gov- 
erness a note and cry, " Find him ! " while the other 
pouted and demurred ? 

Baron. And to whom was the letter addressed ? 

Doctor Blazius. That is precisely the hie, my lord ; 
hicjacet lepus. To whom was the letter addressed? 
To a man who courts turkey-girls. Now a man who 
courts turkey-girls may be strongly suspected of being 
born to drive turkeys himself. But it is impossible 
that your niece, with her education, should fall in love 
with such a person. That is all I have to say, and I 
am no more able to understand it than your lordship 
appears to be, with all due respect be it spoken. 

Baron. Great Heavens ! my niece told me this 
morning that she would not marry her cousin Per- 
dican. Can it be because she is in love with a fellow 
who takes care of turkeys ? Let us go into my study. 
I have had so many violent shocks since yesterday 

that I cannot collect my thoughts. 

^Exeunt. 



SCENE V. A forest spring. 
Enter PERDICAN, reading a note. 

Perdican. " Meet me at noon, by the little spring." 
What can this mean ? An appointment, after such 



160 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

coldness, such a cruel rejection, such heartless pride ? 
If it is to speak of business, why choose such a spot 
Can it be coquetry ? This morning, while I was walk- 
ing with Rosette, I heard something rustle in the 
bushes, which I took for a fawn. Is she playing a 
game ? 

[Enter CAMILLE. 

Camille. Good day, cousin. I may have been 
mistaken, but I fancied that you went away from me 
this morning sad. You took my hand against my 
will, will you give me yours now ? I refused you a 
kiss, I will give you one. [Kisses him.~\ Now you 
said you would like to have a friendly talk with me. 
Sit down here and let us talk. 

[Seats herself. 

Perdican. Was I dreaming before or am I dream- 
ing now ? 

Camille. You must have thought it odd of me to 
send you a note ; I am rather capricious in my moods, 
but this morning you said very rationally : " If we 
must part, let us part friends." You do not know why 
I go away and I have come here to tell you ; I am 
going to take the veil. 

Perdican. Is it possible? Is this you, Camille, 
whom I see reflected in the spring, sitting among 
the daisies, as in old times ? 

Camitte. Yes, Perdican, it is I ; I have come back 
to the old life for a little while. I struck you as rude, 
and repelling ; the explanation is perfectly simple. I 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 161 

have renounced the world. Before I leave it, how- 
ever, I should like to have your opinion. Do you 
think I am right to become a nun ? 

Perdican. Don't ask me, for I shall never be a 
monk myself. 

Camille. You have had some experience of life 
during the ten years that we have been separated. I 
know what sort of man you are, and that you must 
have learned a great deal in a short time with a heart 
and mind like yours ; tell me, have you had mis- 
tresses ? 

Perdican. Why do you ask ? 
Camitte. Pray answer me, without reserve or 
vanity. 

Perdican. I have. 
Camitte. Did you love them ? 
Perdican. With my whole heart. 
Camille. What has become of them? Do you 
know? 

Perdican. Upon my word, these are peculiar ques- 
tions. What do you expect me to say? I was 
neither their husband nor their brother; they have 
gone where they pleased. 

Camitte. But you must have cared for one more 
than the rest. How long were you in love with the 
one you loved best ? 

Perdican. You are a strange girl ! Do you wish 
to play confessor? 

Camitte. I ask you as a favor to tell me. You are 
11 



162 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

not dissipated, and I believe that you are good at 
heart. You must have inspired love, for you are 
created for it, and you would not be ruled by mere 
caprice. Answer me, I beg. 

Perdican. Upon my word, I don't remember. 

Camitte. Do you know a man who has been in 
love with only one woman ? 

Perdican. There certainly are such men. 
Camille. Are there among your friends? Tell 
me his name. 

Perdican. I have no name to tell you, but I believe 
that there are men capable of loving but once. 

CamiUe. How often can a true man be in love ? 

Perdican. Do you wish me to repeat a litany, or 
are you repeating a catechism yourself? 

Camitte. I wish for information ; I wish to know 
whether I am right or wrong in entering a convent. 
If I were to marry you, would you not be bound to 
answer all my questions, and show me your very 
heart ? I have a high opinion of you, and I believe you 
to be superior to most men of your age both by nature 
and education. I am sorry that you don't remember 
what I ask you ; perhaps if I knew you better I 
should have more courage. 

Perdican. What are you trying to find out ? Tell 
me, and I will answer you. 

Camille. Then answer my first question ; am I 
right to go back to the convent ? 

Perdican. No. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 163 

Camitte. Should I do better to marry you ? 
: . y Perdican. Yes. 

Camitte. If the priest were to breathe upon a glass 
of water and tell you that it was wine, would you drink 
it as such ? 

Perdican. No. 

Camille. Then if the priest were to breathe upon 
you, and tell me that you would love me as long as 
you live, should I believe him ? 

Perdican. Yes, and no. 

Camille. What should I do when I found that you 
did not love me any longer ? 

Perdican. Take a lover. 

Camille. And what when my lover loved me no 
longer ? 

Perdican. Take another. 

Camille. And how long would that go on ? 

Perdican. Until your hair was gray, by which time 
mine would be wh\te. 

Camille. Do you know what the cloister is, Per- 
dican ? Did you ever sit for a whole day on a con- 
vent bench ? 

Perdican. Yes, I have. 

Camitte. I have a friend among the sisters who is 
but thirty years old, and who at fifteen had an income 
of five hundred thousand francs. She is the most 
beautiful and noble creature that ever trod the earth. 
She was a peeress in her own right, and her husband 
was one of the most distinguished men in France. 



164 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Every noble human faculty was cultivated in her, and 
like a generous tree, every bud bore fruit. Never 
did love and happiness crown a fairer brow ; her hus- 
band deceived her, she loved another man, and she is 
dying of despair. 

Perdican. Very possibly. 

Camilk. We shared the same cell, and I have 
passed whole nights talking of her griefs ; they almost 
became my own. It is strange, is it not ? I hardly 
know how to account for it. When she spoke of her 
marriage, and told me of its early rapture, then the 
calm that succeeded, and how at last everything faded, 
how in the evening she used to sit by the fire, and 
he at the window, without exchanging a word, how 
their love languished, and every effort to rekindle it 
ended only in discord, how by degrees another face 
came between them, and grew identified with their 
unhappiness, I seemed to see myself. When she 
said, " I was happy," my heart woyld beat, and when 
she said, " I wept," my own tears flowed. But there 
was something stranger still; only think, I ended 
by creating an imaginary life for myself; it lasted four 
years ; it would be useless to attempt to tell you how 
much reflection and introspection brought it all 
about ; what I wished to tell you, as merely curious, 
is that all Louise's recollections, and all my own 
dreams and fancies, took your image. 

Perdican. My image? 

Camilk. Yes ; that was natural enough, as you are 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 165 

the only man I ever knew. Indeed, I have loved you, 
Perdican. 

Perdican. How old are you, Camille ? 

Gamille. Eighteen. 

Perdican. Go on, go on ; I am listening. 

Camille. There are two hundred women in our 
convent ; a few of these women have never known 
life ; all the rest are awaiting death. More than one 
of them has left the convent like me to-day, pure and 
full of hope. Erelong they returned, aged and broken- 
hearted. Every day at least one dies in our dormi- 
tories, and every day some one else comes to take her 
place on the hard pallet. Strangers who visit the 
convent admire the quiet and order of the establish- 
ment, and remark how white our veils are ; they do 
not ask why we drop them over our eyes. What do 
you think of these women, Perdican ? Are they right 
or wrong ? 

Perdican. I don't know. 

Gamille, Some of them have advised me not to 
marry. I am glad to have the opportunity of asking 
you what you think. Do you think these women 
would have done better to take lovers, and to advise 
me to do so ? 

Perdican. I don't know. 

Gamille. You promised to answer me. 

Perdican. I am absolved from that promise, for I 
don't believe it is you who are speaking. 

Camille. Very likely ; no doubt most of my ideas 



166 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

are ridiculous ; very possibly I have been taught 
them all by rote, and am merely an ill-trained parrot. 
There is a little picture in the gallery of a monk bend- 
ing over a missal ; a faint sunbeam struggles through 
the bars of his cell, and without one sees an Italian 
tavern before which a goat-herd is dancing. Which 
of these men do you respect most ? 

Perdican. Neither, and both. They are merely 
two ordinary men, one of whom is reading, the other 
dancing; I see nothing else in it. You are quite 
right to take the veil. 

Camitte. Just now you said I was not 

Perdican. Did I ? Very possibly. 

Camitte. So you advise me to do so ? 

Perdican. So you don't believe in anything ? 

Camille. Look me in the face. Perdican. Does 
the man live who does not believe in anything ? 

Perdican [rising], I do not ; I do not believe in 
life eternal. My dear sister, the nuns have given 
you their experience, but trust me, it will not be 
yours; you will not die without having loved. 

Camitte. I mean to love, but I do not mean to suf- 
fer ; I mean to love with an immortal love, and vows 
which will never be broken. This is my love. 

[Holds up a crucifix. 

Perdican. That love does not exclude others. 

Camitte. It will for me. Do not smile, Perdican ! 
It is ten years since we have met, and to-morrow we 
part ; if we meet in ten years more we will speak of 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 167 

this again. I did not wish to dwell in your memory 
only as a cold statue, for absence of feeling too makes 
people what I am. Listen ; go back to the world, and 
as long as you can be happy and love after the fashion 
of this world, forget your sister Camille ; but if ever 
the time should come when you forget, or are yourself 
forgotten, if ever the angel of hope should desert you 
and you find yourself alone upon earth with emptiness 
in your heart, think of her who prays for you. 

Perdican. You are too self-confident, take heed 
to yourself. 

Camille. And wherefore ? 

Perdican. You are eighteen years old, and you do 
not believe in love ! 

Camille. Do you believe in it yourself? I see you 
kneeling there on the same knees which have worn 
out the carpets of mistresses whose very names you 
have forgotten. You have wept for joy and despair, 
but you never forgot that the rills would flow longer 
than your tears, and always be there to wash them 
away. You pursue your calling of a man of pleasure 
and smile when you hear of broken-hearted women ; 
you don't believe in dying of love, you who have 
loved and lived. What is the world, then ? I think 
you must cordially despise the women who are willing 
to take you as you are, and dismiss their last lover to 
call you to their arms, with another's kisses still warm 
on your lips ! I asked you just now if you had ever 
been in love, and you answered me like a traveller 



168 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

who is asked if he has ever been in Italy, or Germany, 
and says : " Yes, I have been there, and I am thinking 
of going to Switzerland, or somewhere else, just as it 
may chance." Is your love like a piece of money, 
changing hands as long as you live ? No, it is not even 
like that ; the smallest coin is better than you, for no 
matter through what hands it passes, it keeps its own 
stamp. 

Perdican. How beautiful you are, Camille, when 
your eyes kindle. 

Camille. Yes, I know I am beautiful, but I shall 
not hear it from compliment-mongers ; the frigid nun 
will turn pale, perhaps, as she cuts off my hair, but it 
will never be made into rings and chains to be sported 
in boudoirs ; not a single lock will be missing when I 
yield it to the steel ; the scissors shall touch it but 
once, and when the priest who blesses me places the 
gold ring of my celestial spouse upon my finger, he 
may make a cloak of the tresses I lose. 

Perdican. You are really angry. 

Camille. I was foolish to say anything, my whole 
life is upon my lips. Oh Perdican ! do not sneer : it 
is all mortally sad. 

Perdican. My poor child, I let you go on, but I 
should like very much to say a word myself. You 
speak of a sister who seems to have had a most fatal 
influence over you. You say she was deceived, that 
she deceived in turn, and that she is in despair. Are 
you sure that if her husband or her lover were to 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 169 

stretch his hand to her through the convent-grating, 
she would not reach forth her own ? 

Camilk. "What do you say ? I hardly understood. 

Perdican. Are you certain that if her husband or 
her lover were to come back, and bid her suffer again, 
she would refuse ? 

Camille. I believe she would. 

Perdican. There are two hundred women in your 
convent, and the greater number of them have wounds 
in their hearts which never heal ; they have made you 
touch them ; they have colored your virgin thoughts 
with their life-blood. They have known life, you say, 
and they have shown you the paths they trod, with 
horror ; you have crossed yourself before their scars, 
as if they were the sacred wounds of Christ ; they have 
led you in their funereal processions, and you press 
against their haggard forms with holy horror when a 
man passes. Are you sure that if it were the man 
who betrayed them, the man through whom they weep 
and suffer, and whom they execrate in their very 
prayers, are you quite sure that they would not 
burst their chains and fly back to their by-gone sor- 
rows, and press the very dagger that smote them into 
their still bleeding breasts ? Oh child, child, do you un- 
derstand the dreams of those women who tell you not 
to dream ? Do you know the name they murmur when 
the sacrament touches their quivering lips ? Do you 
guess what manner of women these are, who sit down 
and shake their heads, and pour their poisoned life- 



170 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

stream into your young ears, and sound the tocsin of 
their own despair amid the ruins of your youth, and 
chill your warm blood with the grave-damps from 
their tombs ? Do you know what they are ? 

Camille. You frighten me, you are angry, too. 
Perdican. Do you know what these nuns are, 
wretched girl ? When they tell you that human love 
is a lie, do they forget that there is a worse lie the 
mockery of love divine ? Do they not know that it is 
a crime to whisper their corrupt experience in a ves- 
tal's ear ? Ah ! they have trained you but too well ! 
I foresaw it all when you stopped before our great- 
aunt's picture. You would have gone away without 
touching my hand, without seeing this wood, or this 
little spring, which is watching us with tears in its 
eyes ; you disowned your childish days, and the plas- 
ter mask the nuns have put on your face would have 
refused me a brother's kiss. But despite yourself, 
your heart beat, that heart which cannot read for 
itself forgot its lesson, and you came back to rest on 
this turf. Well, Camille, those women have done you 
good service, they have put you on the right track ; 
it may cost me my life-long happiness ; yet tell them 
this from me : Heaven is not for them. 

Camille. Nor for me either, you mean. 

Perdican. Farewell, Camille ; go back to your con- 
vent, and when they tell you the hideous tales with 
which they have poisoned you already, say what I tell 
you now : All men are false, boasters, liars, deceivers, 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 171 

hypocrites, arrogant, cowardly, contemptible, sensual ; 
all women artificial, vain, inquisitive, perfidious, and de- 
praved ; the world is a bottomless sewer where shapeless 
monsters writhe and crawl amid mountains of slime, 
but if there is one great and sacred thing in ex- 
istence, it is the union of two of these imperfect, 
horrible beings. A man may often be deceived, 
wounded, and miserable ; but if he loves, he can 
pause on the brink of the grave and look back and 
say : " I have often suffered, and sometimes erred, but 
I have loved ; it is 1 who have lived, and not a facti- 
tious creature of my vanity and weariness." 

[Exit. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. The green before the gates. 
Enter the BARON and DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Baron. Not to speak of your drunkenness, you are 
a beast, Doctor Blazius. My servants have seen you 
sneak into the wine-cellar, and when convicted of pil- 
fering my bottles in the most shameful manner, you 
try and justify yourself by accusing my niece of a 
clandestine correspondence. 

Doctor Blazius. But if your lordship will only 
deign to recollect 

Baron. Leave the house, sir ! and never let me see 



172 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

your face again ; there is no excuse for your conduct, 
and my dignity forbids me ever to pardon it. 

[Exit DOCTOR BLAZICS. BARON follows him. Enter PERDICAN. 

Perdican. I should really like to know whether I 
am in love. To begin with, what questions she asks 
for a girl of eighteen ! besides, it would be difficult to 
correct the notions with which those nuns have filled 
her head ; moreover, she is going away to-day. The 
deuce ! I am in love with her, that's certain. After all, 
who knows? Perhaps she was only reciting some- 
thing she had learned by rote ; but then she evidently 
cares nothing for me. She may be as pretty as she 
pleases, too, but that does not alter the fact that her 
style is much too decided, and her manner too abrupt. 
I will just think no more about it ; it is clear to me 
that I am not in love with her. She certainly is very 
pretty, but why can't I drive that talk we had 
yesterday out of my head ? In fact, I was maunder- 
ing all night. Where was I going ? Oh yes, to the 

village. 

[Exit. 



SCENE II. A lane. 
Enter DOCTOR BKIDAINE. 

Doctor Bridaine. What are they about now ? 
Alas, it is noon, and they are dining ! What is 
there for dinner ? What isn't there ! I saw the cook 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 173 

cross the village, carrying a large turkey, and the 
scullion followed with truffles and a basket of grapes. 

[Enter DOCTOR BLAZIUS. 

Doctor Blazius. Oh unexpected disgrace ! Turned 
out of the house, and consequently out of the dining- 
room ! I shall drink no more wine in that cellar. 

Doctor Bridaine. I shall see no more smoking 
dishes ! Never more shall I warm my ample person 
before that noble fire-place ! 

Doctor Blazius. Why did I let my accursed curi- 
osity induce me to play eavesdropper to Dame Pluche 
and the niece ? Why did I repeat what I overheard 
to the baron ? 

Doctor Bridaine. Why did I let false pride drive 
me from that board where I was so welcome ? What 
did the right or the left-hand seat matter ? 

Doctor Blazius. Alack a day ! I must own I was 
tipsy when I made such a fool of myself. 

Doctor Bridaine. Alack a day ! the wine had gone 
to my head when I was so hasty. 

Doctor Blazius. Why, isn't this the priest ? 

Doctor Bridaine. Here's the tutor. 

Doctor Blazius. Ho ! your reverence, where are 
you going ? 

Doctor Bridaine. I ? I'm going to dinner. Aren't 
you? 

Doctor Blazius. Not to-day. Oh Doctor Bri- 
daine, do intercede for me ; the baron has turned me 
out of his house. I falsely accused Miss Camille of 



174 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

carrying on a clandestine correspondence, though I 
call Heaven to witness I saw or thought I saw Dame 

o 

Pluche hopping in the clover. I am ruined, your 
reverence ! 

Doctor Bridaine. What do I hear ? 

Doctor Blazius. Alas, you hear the truth ! I am in 
utter disgrace for stealing a bottle of wine. 

Doctor Bridaine. What are you talking about? 
Stolen bottles of wine, hopping in the clover, and 
clandestine correspondences? 

Doctor Blaziui. Pray do intercede for me. I 
mean you well, Doctor Bridaine ; good Doctor Bri- 
daine, I am your humble servant. 

Doctor Bridaine. Oh what luck ! Am I dreaming ; 
shall I sit in you again, blessed arm-chair ? 

Doctor Blazius. I should be a thousand times 
obliged, my dear doctor, if you would listen to my 
story, and plead my cause. 

Doctor Bridaine. I am sorry, sir, but it is impos- 
sible ; it is past twelve and I am going to dinner. If 
the baron is displeased with you, it is your. own fault; 
I cannot espouse the cause of a drunkard. \_Aside.~\ 
Come, let's be off to the house, and thou, oh belly ! 
expand thyself. 

[Exit, running. 

Doctor Blazius. Wretched Pluche ! . you shall 
pay for this ; yes, you shameless woman, you vile go- 
between, I owe my disgrace to you. Oh holy Univer- 
sity of Paris ! I am called a drunkard ! I shall be 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 175 

ruined if I don't get hold of a letter, and prove to the 
baron that his niece has a clandestine correspondence. 
I saw her at her writing-desk this morning. Good ! 
here is something now. [Enter DAME PLUCHE, carry- 
ing a letter.] Pluche, give me that letter. 

Dame Pluche. And why, pray ? It is a letter of 
my young lady's which I am taking to mail in the 
village. 

Doctor Blazius. Give it to me, or you are a dead 
woman ! ,| 

Dame 1 Pluche. A dead woman ! Oh Mary ! Jesus ! 
Virgin and martyr ! 

Doctor Blazius. Yes, a dead woman! Give me 
the letter ! 

[ They scuffle. Enter PERDICAN. 

Perdican. What's the matter? What are you 
about, Blazius ? Let that woman alone. 

Dame Pluche. Give me back the letter ! He took 
it from me, my lord ! Justice ! 

Doctor Blazius. She is a vile go-between, your 
lordship. It is a love-letter. 

Dame Pluche. It is a letter of your cousin Camille's, 
my lord. 

Doctor Blazius. It is a love-letter to a turkey- 
driver. 

Dame Pluche. That's a lie ! Take that ! 

Perdican. Give me the letter. I know nothing 
about your quarrel, but as Camille's future husband I 
claim the right of seeing it. [Reads.'} "To Sister 



176 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Louise, Convent of ." \_Aside.~] What infernal 

curiosity seizes me ? My heart beats violently, and I 
can hardly define my sensations. Go home, Dame 
Pluche ; you are a good woman, and Doctor Blazius 
is a fool ; go to your dinner ; I will mail the letter. 
[Exeunt.] What can Camille have to say to this sister ? 
Can I be in love ? How has this strange girl gained 
such empire over me that a few words in her writing 
make my hand tremble ? The seal has been broken 
in the scuffle! Is it a crime to open it? At all 
events, here goes. * 

[ Opens the letter and reads. 

' r " I leave here to-day, my dearest, and everything has 
turned out as I foresaw. It is a terrible thing to say, 
but the poor boy is pierced to the heart; he will 
never get over losing me. Yet I have done every- 
thing in my power to disgust him with me. God for- 
give me for having driven him to despair. Alas, dear 
friend, what else could I do ? Pray for me ; to- 
morrow we shall be together once more and forever. 
Yours with my whole soul, CAMILLE." 

What ! Can Camille have written this ? Does she 
speak of me in such a way ? I in despair ? Good 
Lord ! if it were true, I should not deny it ; there is no 
disgrace in being in love. She has done everything 
in her power to disgust me, and I am pierced to the 
heart ! What object can she have for inventing such 
a story. Could I have guessed right last night ? Oh 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 177 

you women ! Poor Camille may be extremely pious, 
and perfectly sincere in dedicating herself to God, but 
she has resolved and decreed that I am to be in de- 
spair. It was settled between the dear friends before 
she left the convent. It was decided that Camille 
should meet her cousin, that her family should wish 
for their marriage, that she should refuse him, and 
that he should be broken-hearted. It made such an 
interesting story, a young girl who sacrifices her 
cousin's happiness to God ! No, no, Camille ! I do 
not love you, and I am not in despair, nor pierced to 
the heart, and I will prove it. Before you leave here, 
you shall know that I love somebody else. Here ! 
good man ! \_Enter a peasant.] Go to the great house, 
take this note to the kitchen, and tell them to send it 
up to Miss Camille by a footman. 

[ Writes. 

Peasant. Yes, your lordship. 

\&St. 

Perdican. Now for the other ! I'm in despair, am 
I ? Ho ! Rosette ! Rosette ! 

[Knocks at Tier door. 

Rosette [opening it}. Is it your lordship? Come 
_ in, my mother is at home. 

Perdican. Rosette, put on your smartest cap, and 
come with me. 

Rosette. Where to? 

Perdican. I'll tell you presently ; ask your mother 
and make haste. 

Rosette. Yes, your lordship. 

12 [Exit into the cottage. 



178 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Perdican. I have asked Camille to meet me again, 
and I know she will come, but by Heaven, she shall 
find something different from what she expects. I 
will make love to Rosette before her very eyes. 



SCENE III. The spring in the wood. 
Lnter CAMILLE and the peasant. 

Peasant. I was taking a letter up to the house for 
you, miss ; shall I give it to you, or carry it to the 
kitchen, as Lord Perdican told me ? 

Camille. Give it to me. 

Peasant. If you would rather I'd take it to the 
house I'll carry it there without more ado. 

Camille. Give it to me I tell you. 

Peasant. Just as you like. 

[Gives her the letter. 

Camille. There, that's for your trouble. 

Peasant. Thank you kindly ; I suppose I may go 
now. 

Camille. If you will be so good. 

Peasant. I'm going, I'm going. 

[Exit. 

Camille [reading']. Perdican begs me to meet him 
at the little spring where I told him to come yester- 
day, to bid me good-by before I go. What can he have 
to say ? Here's the spring, and I am greatly minded 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE, 179 

to wait. Ought I to give him this second meeting ? 
Ah ! Here comes Perdican with my foster-sister, Ro- 
sette. [She hides behind a tree.] I suppose he will 
send her away ; I'm glad not to seem to be here before 
him. [Enter PERDICAN and ROSETTE ; CAMILLE re- 
mains hidden.~] What does this mean? He makes 
her sit down beside him. Did he ask me to meet him 
here that he might come and make love to somebody 
else ? I should like to know what he is saying. 

Perdican [loud enough to be heard by CAMILLE]. I 
love you, Rosette ! You are the one person in the 
world who has not forgotten the dear old times ; you 
alone remember the past. Share the future with me, 
dear child ; give me your heart ; take this as a token 
of our love. 

[ Clasps his chain around her neck. 

Rosette. Do you give me your gold chain ? 

Perdican. See this ring. Stand up and come to 
the edge of the spring. Do you see us both reflected 
in the water, leaning upon one another ? Look at 
your bright eyes near mine, your hand in mine ; 
now see it all disappear ! [Drops the ring into the 
water.] See how the image has vanished ; now watch 
it come back by degrees ; the ruffled water is growing 
smooth again, but it trembles still and great circles are 
spreading over the surface ; have patience and we shall 
see ourselves again ; I can make out your arm linked 
in mine, already ; in another minute there will not be 
a wrinkle on your pretty face, see there ! It was a 
ring Camille gave me. 



180 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Camilk. He has thrown my ring into the water ! 

Perdican. Do you know what love is, Rosette ? 
Listen, the wind is hushed, the morning's shower is 
rolling in great diamonds off the leaves which are re- 
viving in the sunshine. I love you ! You love me too, 
do you not ? Your youth has not been dried up ; no- 
body has infused the dregs of their veins into your 
rosy life-current. You don't want to be a nun ; here 
you are, fresh and lovely, with a young man's arm 
round you ! Rosette, do you know what love is ? 

Rosette. Alas, your lordship is very learned, but I 
will love you as well as I know how ! 

Perdican. Yes, as well as you know how ; and 
learned as I am, and rustic as you are, you will love 
me better than one of those pale statues manufactured 
by the nuns, with a head instead of a heart, who 
issue from their cloisters to poison the vital air with 
the damp reek of their cells. You don't know any- 
thing ; you can't read the prayer your mother taught 
you, which she learned from her mother before her ; 
you don't even understand the words you repeat as 
you kneel at your bedside ; but you understand that 
you are praying, and that is all God requires. 

Rosette. How your lordship talks ! 

Perdican. You don't know how to read, but you 
know the language of these woods and meadows, 
these warm banks, yon fair harvest-fields, and of all 
this glorious young Nature ! You know them for 
your thousand brothers, and me for one of them. 



NO TMIFLING WITH LOVE. 181 

Come, let us go ; you shall be my wife, and we will 
strike root into the genial heart of omnipotent crea- 
tion. 

[Exit with Rosette. 



SCENE IV. 

Enter the CHORUS. 

Chorus. Strange things are going on at the great 
house to-day. Camille refuses to marry Perdican and 
is going back to her convent this afternoon. But I 
think his lordship, her cousin, has consoled himself 
with Rosette. Ah, the poor girl does not know the risk 
she runs in listening to a gay young gentleman. 

[Enter DAME PLUCHE. 

Dame Pluche. Quick, quick, saddle my donkey. 

Chorus. Are you about to vanish like a dream, 
venerable lady ? Are you in such haste to mount the 
poor beast who is so loath to carry you ? 

Dame Pluche. Heaven be praised, I shall not die 
here, you amiable herd. 

Chorus. Die far from hence, beloved Pluche ! 
Die unknown in some malarious cavern. We will 
say masses for your respectable resurrection. 

Dame Pluche. Here comes my young lady. [Enter 
CAMILLE.] Dear Camille, everything is ready for our 
departure, the baron has made up his accounts, and 
my donkey is saddled. 



182 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Camille. Go to the devil with your donkey! I 

shall not start to-day. 

[Exit. 

Chorus. What does this mean ? Dame Pluche is 
pale with fright ! Her false hair struggles to stand 
on end, her breast heaves and she clenches her bony 
hands. 

Dame Pluche. Powers above ! Camille swore. 

[Exit. 



SCENE V. 
Enter the BARON and DOCTOR BRIDAINE. 

Doctor Bridaine. My lord, I have something urgent 
to say ; your son is courting one of the village girls. 

Baron. Nonsense, my good friend. 

Doctor Bridaine. I distinctly saw him give her his 
arm as they crossed the common ; he was bending 
over her and promising to marry her. 

Baron. ' This is monstrous ! 

Doctor Bridaine. You shall be convinced ; he has 
made her a valuable present which the child showed 
her mother. 

Baron. Good heavens, Bridaine, valuable ? How 
valuable ? 

Doctor Bridaine. In weight and material. He 
gave her the gold chain he wore in his cap. 

Baron. Come into my study with me. I don't 

know which way to turn. 

[Exeunt. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LONE. 183 

SCENE VI. Camillas apartment. 
Enter CAMILLE and DAME PLUCHE. 

Camille. You say he took my letter ? 

Dame Pluche. Yes, dear, he said he would post it. 

Camille. Be good enough to go to the drawing- 
room, Dame Pluche, and tell Perdican that I wish to 
speak to him here. {Exit DAME PLUCHE.] He 
has undoubtedly read my letter; that scene in the 
wood was revenge, and so is all his love-making to 
Rosette. He wished to convince me that he loved 
somebody else, and to hide his mortification under a 
show of indifference. Does he love me after all, I 
wonder ? \_She raises the tapestry.~\ Is that you, Rosette ? 

Rosette [as she enters~\. Yes ; may I come in ? 

Camille. Listen to me, my dear ; has not Lord 
Perdican been making love to you ? 

Rosette. Alas, yes ! 

Camille. What do you think of what he said this 
morning ? 

Rosette. This morning ? Why, where ? 

Camille. Don't be a hypocrite. This morning at 
the spring in the wood. 

Rosette. Then you saw me ! 

Camille. Poor little innocent ! No, I did not see 
you. He made all sorts of fine speeches, didn't he? 
I would wager he promised to marry you. 
Rosette. Why, how do you know ? 



184 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE- 

Camille. Never mind; do you believe his prom- 
ises, Rosette ? 

Rosette. How can I help it ? He wouldn't deceive 
me. Why should he ? 

Camille. Perdican does not mean to marry you, 
my child. 

Rosette. Alas, perhaps not ! 

Camille. You love him, you poor girl ; he does not 
mean to marry you, and I will give you the proof ; 
hide behind this curtain ; you have nothing to do but 
to listen and come when I call you. 

[Exit ROSETTE. 

Camille. I thought to do an act of vengeance, but 
may it not be one of humanity ? The poor child has 
lost her heart. [Enter PERDICAN.] Good morning, 
cousin, sit down. 

Perdican. How beautifully you are dressed, Ca- 
mille ! On whom have you designs ? 

Camille. On you, perhaps. I am vefy sorry that I 
could not meet you as you asked ; had you anything 
to say ? 

Perdican [aside\. Upon my word that's rather a 
big fib for a spotless lamb ! I saw her under the trees. 
[Aloud.'] I had nothing to say but good-by, Camille ; 
I thought you were going, but your horse is in the 
stable, and you do not seem to be dressed for travel- 
ling. 

Gamille. I am fond of discussion, and I am not 
sure that I did not wish for another quarrel with you. 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 185 

Perdican. What object can there be in quarrel- 
ing when there is no possibility of making up? The 
pleasure of disputes is in making peace. 

Camitte. Are you so sure I wouldn't make peace ? 

Perdican. Don't jest ; I am not equal to answer- 
ing you. 

Camille. I want to be made love to ! I don't know 
whether it is because I have on a new gown, but I 
wish to be amused. You proposed our going to the 
village, well, I am ready. Let us row ; I should 
like to dine on the grass, or to ramble in the forest. 
Will it be moonlight this evening ? How odd ! you 
have not on the ring I gave you. 

Perdican. I lost it. 

Camille. So I found it ; here it is, Perdican. 

Perdican. Is it possible I Where did you find it ? 

Camitte. You are looking to see whether my hands 
are wet? To tell the truth, I spoiled my convent 
dress in getting this trinket out of the spring. That 
is why I put another on, and I tell you it has changed 
me ; so put that upon your finger. 

Perdican. You got this out of the water at the 
risk of falling in, Camille ? Am I dreaming ? Here 
it is again, and you put it on my finger. Oh Camille, 
why do you give me back this sad relic of my lost 
happiness ? Tell me, you foolish and fickle girl, why 
you go away ? Why do you stay ? Why do you 
change every hour like this stone in each new light ? 

Camille. Do you know woman's heart, Perdican ? 



186 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Are you convinced of her inconstancy, and that she 
really changes her mind whenever she changes her 
mood ? Some say not. Undoubtedly we are often 
forced to play a part, even to tell lies, I am frank, 
you see, but are you sure that everything in a 
woman lies when her tongue lies ? Have you ever 
reflected on the nature of this weak and undisciplined 
creature, and on the severity with which she is judged, 
and the part that she is compelled to play? Who 
knows whether, constrained by the world to continual 
deceit, the head of this brainless being may not finally 
learn to take a certain pleasure in it ; may she not 
tell lies for amusement sometimes, as she is so often 
forced to tell them for necessity ? 

Perdican. I understand none of this ; I never lie ; 
I love you, Camille, and that is all I know. 

Camille. You say you love me and that you never 
lie? 

Perdican. Never ! 

Camille. Yet here's somebody who says that acci- 
dent befalls you occasionally. [She raises the tapestry 
and shows ROSETTE fainting in a chair.~\ What will 
you say to this child, Perdican, when she asks you to 
account for your words ? If you never lie, why has 
she fainted on hearing you say that you love me ? I 
leave her with you ; try and bring her to life. 

[Is about to go. 

Perdican. One moment, Camille ! Hear me ! 
Camille. What have you to say to me ? It is to 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 187 

Rosette you must answer, /do not love you ; I did 
not seek this hapless child in her cottage to use her 
as a toy, a foil ; I did not recklessly repeat to her the 
burning words I had addressed to others ; I did not 
feign to cast to the winds the tokens of a cherished 
attachment, for her sake ; I did not put my chain 
round her neck ; I dfd not promise to marry her ! 

Perdican. Listen to me ! listen to me ! 
Camilk. I saw you smile just now when I said I 
had not been able to go to the fountain. Yes, I was 
there and heard it all, but God is my witness that I 
would not have done as you did. What will you do 
with that girl now, when, with your kisses still burn- 
ing on her lips, she weeps and points to the wound 
you have dealt her ? You wished to revenge yourself 
upon me, did you not, for a letter I wrote to my con- 
vent? You were bent on piercing my soul at any 
cost, not caring whether your poisoned dart wounded 
this child, if it but struck me through her. I had 
boasted of having made you love me, and of causing 
you regret. Did that wound your noble pride ? Well 
then, hear me say it, you love me, but you will 
marry that girl, or you are a poor creature. 

Perdican. Yes, I will marry her. 

Camille. You will do well. 

Perdican. Very well, and much better than if I 
married you. What excites you to such a degree, Ca- 
mille ? The child has fainted ; we can easily bring 
her to, we only need a smelling-bottle. You wish to 



188 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

convict me of having lied once in my life, and you 
have done so, but I think you are rather self-confident 
in deciding when. Come, help me to restore Rosette. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE VII. 

Enter BARON and CAMILLE. 

Baron. If it takes place I shall go mad 

CamiUe. Use your authority. 

Baron. I shall go mad, and I will refuse my con- 
sent, that's certain. 

CamiUe. You ought to speak to him and make 
him listen to reason. 

Baron. It will drive me to despair during the en- 
tire carnival, and I shall not go to court once next 
season. It is the most unequal match ! Who ever 
heard of marrying your cousin's foster-sister ? It 
passes all bounds. 

CamiUe. Send for him and tell him plainly that 
you disapprove of the marriage. Depend upon it, this 
is a mere freak, and he will not resist your authority. 

Baron. I shall certainly wear mourning all winter. 

CamiUe. But in Heaven's name, speak to him ! 
He is going to commit an act of madness ; perhaps it 
is too late already ; if he has announced his intentions, 
he will do it. 

Baron. I am going to shut myself up and give 
way to my grief; if he asks for me tell him I have 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 189 

shut myself up, and that I am giving way to my grief 
at his marrying a nameless girl. 

[Exit. 

Camille. Is there not one man here ? When one 
tries to find him, one is absolutely terrified by the 
solitude ! [Enter PERDICAN.] Well, cousin, when is 
the wedding to be ? 

Perdican. As soon as possible ; I have spoken to 
the notary, the priest, and all the villagers. 

Camille. Then you really mean to marry Rosette ? 

Perdican. Most assuredly. 

Camille. What will your father say ? 

Perdican. Whatever he likes. It pleases me to 
marry the girl ; I owe the idea to you, and I hold by 
it. What is the use of repeating the worn-out com- 
mon-places about her family and mine ? She is young 
and pretty and in love with me ; I need no more to 
be trebly happy. Whether she has brains or not, I 
might have done worse. People may exclaim and 
laugh ; I have nothing to do with them. 

Camille. There is nothing to laugh at in it ; you 
are quite right to marry her. There is only one thing 
I am sorry for ; people will say you have done it from 
pique. 

Perdican. You sorry for that ? No indeed ! 

Camille. Yes, I am sorry for your sake. It in- 
jures a young man to have it said that he yielded to 
a moment's irritation. 

Perdican. Be sorry then ; for my part I care not 
a jot. 



190 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Camille. But you don't really think of it ? the 
girl is nobody. 

Perdican. She will be somebody when she is my 
wife. 

Camille. She will weary you to death before the 
notary has put on his new coat and shoes for the oc- 
casion ; you will be disgusted at the wedding-supper, 
and will have her hands and feet cut off on the wed- 
ding-night, as they do in the Arabian Nights, be- 
cause she smells of the kitchen. 

Perdican. You will see that you are wrong; you 
do not know me ; when a woman is sensible and gen- 
tle, fresh, good, and handsome, I can content myself 
with that, yes, actually so far as not even to care 
whether she understands Latin. 

Camille. It is a pity that so much money was spent 
in teaching it to you ; three thonsand crowns thrown 
away. 

Perdican. Yes. it would have been much better 
bestowed upon the poor. 

Camille. You can do that yourself, at least to the 
poor in spirit. 

Perdican. They will give me the kingdom of 
heaven in exchange, for it is theirs. 

Camille. How long is this farce to last ? 

Perdican. "What farce ? 

Camille. Your marriage to Rosette? 

Perdican. Not very long. God has not made 
man a durable work ; thirty or forty years at the 
utmost 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 191 

Camille. I am impatient to dance at your wed- 
ding. 

Perdican. Look here, Camille, this bantering is 
out of place. 

Camille. J enjoy it too much to relinquish it. 

Perdican. Then I must relinquish your society, for 
I have had enough of it for the present. 

Camille. Are you going to your betrothed ? 

Perdican. Yes, this moment. 

Camille. Give me your arm ; I will go too. 

[Enter ROSETTE. 

Perdican. Here you are, my child ! Come, I wish 
to present you to my father. 

Rosette [fatting on her knees.~\ I have come to ask 
a favor of your lordship. All the village people to 
whom I have spoken this morning, say that you are 
in love with your cousin, and that you have courted 
me only to amuse yourself and her ; they make fun 
of me as I pass, and I shall never be able to find a 
husband after having been the laughing-stock of the 
neighborhood. Let me give you back the chain you 
gave me, and go live quietly with my mother. 

Camille. You are a good girl, Rosette ; keep the 
chain ; /give it to you, and I will give him mine in its 
place. As to a husband, don't be afraid ; I will find 
you one. 

Perdican. That will not be difficult. Come, Ro- 
sette, let me take you to my father. 

Camille. "Why ? It will be of no use. 



192 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

Perdican. True, my father tfould not receive us 
well; we must let him get over his first surprise. 
Come with me and we will go to the village-green. 
I like their saying I don't love you when I am going 
to marry you. By the Lord! we will soon silence 
them. 

[Exit with ROSETTE. 

Camille. What is the matter with me ? He leads 
her away deliberately. How strange ! my head swims. 
Is he really going to marry her ? Here ! here ! Dame 
Pluche ! will nobody come ? [Enter a footman.] 
Run after Lord Perdican and tell him to come back 
immediately, I wish to speak to him. [Exit footman.~\ 
But what is the matter with me ? I can't stand, my 
knees won't support me. 

[Enter PERDICAN. 

Perdiean. Did you send for me, Camille ? 

Camille. No, no ! 

Perdican. How pale you are ! What have you to 
say ? Didn't you send word that you wished to speak 
to me ? 

Camille. No no. Oh great God ! 

[Exit. 



SCENE VIII. An oratory. 

Enter CAMILLE. She throws herself at the foot of the altar. 
Camille, Oh my God, hast thou abandoned me ? 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 193 

Thou knowest that I came hither faithful to thee ; when 
I refused to take another spouse, thou knowest that I 
spoke in all sincerity before thee and my own soul ; 
thou knowest it, oh Father ! and wilt thou no longer 
accept me ? Oh wherefore hast thou made truth itself 
to lie ? Why am I so weak ? Ah, wretched girl ! I 
cannot even pray. 

[Enter PERDICAN. 

Perdican. Pride, most fatal of all the counsellors 
of humanity, why have you come between me and 
this girl ? See her, pale and distraught, pressing 
her face and breast against these senseless stones. 
She could have loved me, and we were born for one 
another. Oh pride ! what brought you to our lips 
when our hands were ready to be joined ? 

Camitte. Who has followed me ? Whose voice do 
I hear beneath this vault ? Is it you, Perdican ? 

Perdican. Fools that we are ! We love each 
other ? What have you been dreaming, Camille ? 
What futile speech, what wretched folly has swept be- 
tween us like a blast from the tombs ? Which of us 
tried to deceive the other ? Alas, when life itself is 
such a painful dream, why seek to fill it with worse 
ones of our own ? Oh God ! happiness is a pearl so 
rarely found in this stormy sea ! thou hadst given it 
to us, thou hadst rescued this treasure from the abyss 
for us, and, like spoiled children as we are, we treated 
it as a plaything. The green path which led us to- 
ward each other sloped so gently, and was so strewn 
18 



194 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 

with flowers, it vanished in such a calm horizon 
needs was that words, and vanity, and anger should 
hurl their shapeless crags across this celestial path, 
which would have led us to thee in an embrace ! 
Needs was that we should wrong and wound each 
other, for we are human ! Oh fools ! fools ! and we 
love each other ! 

[He clasps her in his arms. 

Camille. Yes, Perdican, we love each other ! Let 
me feel it on your heart. The God who sees us will 
not be angry ; he wills that I should love you ; he 
has known it these fifteen years. 

Perdican. Dearest being, you are mine ! 

[He kisses her ; a shriek is heard from behind the altar. 

Camille. My foster-sister's voice ! 

Perdican. How came she here ? I left her on the 
staircase when you sent for me. She must have 
followed me without my knowledge. 

Camitte. Come this way, the cry came from 
here. 

Perdican. What do I fear? my hands seem 
bathed in blood. 

Camille. The poor child must have overheard us, 
and she has fainted again ; come and help her ! Ah, 
it is all too cruel. 

Perdican. No, I cannot go I am numb with 
mortal terror. Go, Camille, and try to help her. 
[Exit CAMILLE.] Oh God, I beseech thee, make me 
not a murderer ! Thou seest our hearts ; we are two 



NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 195 

senseless children who have been playing with life 
and death. God of justice, do not let Rosette die ! I 
will find her a husband, I will repair the evil I have 
done, she is young, she shall be rich and happy. 
Oh do not refuse me this, my God ! thou canst bless 
four of thy children ! [Reenter CAMILLE.] Well, Ca- 
mille ? 

Camille. She is dead. Farewell, Perdican. 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



" FOR BOTH WERE FAITHS, AND BOTH 
ARE GONE." 

WOULD'ST thou recall the days, when upon earth 
Heaven dwelt and breathed among a race divine ? 
When Venus rose, still virgin, from the brine, 
Shook from her limbs the tear-drops of her birth, 
And wringing from her hair the mother-wave, 
Joy and fecundity to Nature gave ? 
The days when 'mid the flow'ring water-weeds 
Buoyed in the sunshine, lay the wanton nymph, 
Intent with saucy laughter to provoke, 
The lazy faun stretched out among the reeds ? 
When lone Narcissus kissed the trembling lymph, 
When mocking Dryads hid in every oak, 
Or started from the bark, their green abode, 
On bending branches in the wind to sway, 
While Echo warbled back the traveller's lay ? 
When Hercules throughout creation strode 
In blood-stained mantle of the lion's hide, 
With everlasting Justice at his side ? 
When all was godlike, even human pain, 



200 POEMS. 

And men paid worship to what now is slain ? 
All happy, save Prometheus alone, 
He, Satan's elder-born, and fall'n like him. 

Or when the breath of change passed cold and dim 
O'er all, earth, man, and heaven, like a cloud, 
And the world's cradle had become its tomb : 
When from the North the avalanche of doom 
O'er Rome's vast ruin wrapped its icy shroud : 

Would'st thou recall the days, when as at first 
A savage age brought forth an age of gold ? 
When like to Lazarus the dead earth burst 
Fresh from her tomb, and back the grave-stone 

rolled ? 

The days when spreading wide its golden wings, 
Romance for realms enchanted took its flight ; 
Our monuments, our creeds, our sacred things 
Still^wore unsullied robes of virgin white ? 
When 'neath Christ's master-hand all lived anew, 
When the priest's home, the prince's palace high, 
The self-same radiant cross upheld to view, 
Based on the mountain, looking towards the sky ? 
When Notre Dame, St Peter's, and Cologne, 
And Strasbourg, kneeling in their cloaks of stone, 
Poured with the organ of a world in prayer 
The centuries' grand birth-psalm thro' the air ? 
When deeds were done which history has sung ; 
The ivory rood o'er hallowed altars hung, 
Its spotless arms to all mankind did ope, 
When life was young, and even death could hope ! 



POEMS. 201 

Oh Christ ! I am not one of those who greet 
Thy silent fanes with reverential tread ; 
I seek not Calvary with bended head, 
To beat my breast, and kiss thy bleeding feet ; 
Beside thy sacred doors I stand aloof 
When in the shadow of the vaulted roof, 
'Neath murmured chants, the faithful bow their knees, 
As bends a tribe of reeds before the breeze ; 
Thy holy gospel I do not revere ; 
I came too late into this aged world ; 
From hopeless times, spring times devoid of fear ; 
Our comets from the sky thy stars have hurled ; 
And chance now wanders with the wakened years 
Robbed of illusion, through the darkened spheres, 
Where down the gulf the spirits of the past 
Thy mutilated angels headlong cast. 
The nails of Golgotha scarce thee uphold, 
Thy sacred sepulchre is bare of mould, 
Thy glory fades, thy form celestial falls 
In dust from off the cross upon our walls. 

Well, let me kneel and kiss that sacred dust, 
Me, offspring of an age devoid of trust, 
And weep, oh Christ, for this cold earth which aye 
Lived by thy death, and must without thee die. 
Oh God ! and who shall bid it now revive, 
This earth thy blood alone could make alive ? 
Who shall repeat what thou hast done in vain, 
And we, born old, who make us young again ? 



ON THREE STEPS OF ROSE-COLORED 
MARBLE. 

SINCE erst that garden, known to fame, 

Was lost by Adam, cruel man, 

Where without a skirt, his dame 

Round an apple frisked and ran, . 

I do not think that on this earth 

'Mid its most notable plantations 

Has been a spot more praised, more famed, 

More choice, more cited, oftener named, 

Than thy most tedious park, Versailles ! 

Oh gods ! oh shepherds ! rocky vales ! 

Oh sulky Termes, satyrs old ! 

Oh pleasing scenes ! oh charming views ! 

Sweet landscape, where one may behold, 

Ranged onion-wise, the little yews ; 

Oh quincunx ! fountain, bowling-green, 

Where every summer Sabbath-e'en 

On pleasure bent, one yawning sees 

So many honest families. 

And ye, imperial Roman shades ! 

Ye naiads, pale and stony maids, 

Holding your hands outstretched to all 

And shivering in your waterfall ! 



POEMS. 203 

Stiles, modelled in obliging bushes ; 

Ye formal groves, wherein the thrushes 

Seek plaintively their native cry ; 

Ye water-gods, who vainly try 

Beneath your fountains to be dry ; 

Ye chestnut-trees, be not afraid 

That I shall vex your ancient shade, 

Knowing that at sundry times 

I have perpetrated rhymes : 

No such ruthless thought is mine. 

No ! I swear it by Apollo, 

I swear it by the sacred Nine, 

By nymphs within their basins hollow, 

Who softly on three flints recline, 

By yon old faun, quaint dancing-master. 

Who trips it on the sward in plaster, 

By thee thyself, august abode, 

Who know'st save Art no other guest, 

I swear by Neptune, watery god, 

My verses shall not break your rest ! 

I know too well what is the matter ; 

The god of song has plagued you sore ; 

The poets, with their ceaseless chatter, 

You brood in mournful silence o'er : 

So many madrigals and odes, 

Songs, ballads, sonnets, and epodes, 

In which your wonders have been sung 

Your tired ears have sadly wrung, 

Until you slumber to the chimes 

Of these interminable rhymes. 



204 POEMS. 

Amid these haunts where dwells ennui 
For mere conformity I slept, 
Or 'twas not sleep that o'er me crept, 
If, dreaming, one awake may be. 
Oh say, my friend, do you recall 
Three marble steps, of rosy hue, 
Upon your way toward the lake, 
When that delicious path you take 
That leads the orangery through, 
Left-turning from the palace wall ? 
I would wager it was here 
Came the monarch without peer, 
In the sunset, red and clear, 
Down the forest dim to see 
Day take flight and disappear, 
If the day could so forget 
What was due to etiquette. 
But what pretty steps are those ! 
Cursed be the foot, said we, 
That would stain their tints of rose, 
Say, do you remember yet ? 

With what soft shades is clouded o'er 
This defaced and broken floor ! 
See the veins of azure deep 
Through the paler rose-tints creep ; 
Trace the slender, branching line 
In the marble, pure and fine ; 
So through huntress Dian's breast 



POEMS. 205 

White and firm as Alpine snows, 

The celestial ichor flows ; 

Such the hand, and still more cold, 

Led me leashed in days of old. 

Don't confound these steps so rare 

With that other staircase where 

The monarch grand, who could not wait, 

Waited on Conde, stair by stair, 

When he came with weary gait. 

War-worn and victorious there. 

Near a marble vase are these, 

Of graceful shape and white as snow, 

Whether 'tis classic or Chinese, 

Antique, or modern, others know. 

I leave the question in their hands ; 

It is not Gothic, I can swear ; 

Much I like it where it stands, 

Worthy vase, and neighbor kind, 

And to think it I'm inclined 

Cousin to my rosy stair, 

Guarding it with jealous care. 

Oh, to see in such small space 

So much beauty, so much grace ! 

Lovely staircase, tell us true, 
How many princes, prelates proud, 
Kings, marquises, a pompous crowd, 
And ladies fair, have swept o'er you ? 
Ah, these last, as I should guess, 



206 POEMS. 

Did not vex thee with their state, 

Nor did t thou groan beneath the weight 

Of ermine cloak or velvet dress : 

Tell us, of that ambitious band 

Whose dainty footstep lightest fell ; 

Was it the regal Montespan ? 

Hortense, a novel in her hand ? 

De Maintenon with beads to tell ? 

Or gay Fontanges, with knot and fan ? 

Didst ever look on La Valliere ? 

And tell us, marble, if you can, 

Which of the twain you thought most fair 

De Parabere or De Sabran ? 

'Twixt Sabran and De Parabere 

The very Regent could not choose 

When supper did his wits confuse. 

Didst ever see the great Voltaire, 

Who waged such war on superstition, 

Who to defy the Christ did dare ; 

He, who aspired to the position 

Of sexton to Cytherea's fane, 

When to the Pompadour he brought 

His compliments, and fulsome strain, 

The holy water of the court. 

Hast beheld the plump Dtibarry 

Accoutred like a country lass, 

Sipping milk, beside thee tarry, 

Or tripping barefoot through the grass ? 



POEMS. 207 

Stones who know our country's story, 
What a variegated throng 
In your by -gone days of glory 
Down your steps have swept along ! 
The gay world lounged beneath these trees, 
Lords and lackeys drank the breeze ; 
There was every sort of cattle ; 
Oh the duchesses ! the tattle, 
Oh the brave red heels that dangled 
Round the ladies, flounced and spangle' 
Oh the gossip ! oh the sighs ! 
Oh the flash of brilliant eyes ! 
Oh the feathers ! oh the stoles ! 
Oh the powder on their polls ! 
Oh the furbelows and breeches 
Underneath those spreading beeches ! 
How many folk not counting fools 
By the ancient fountain-pools ! 
Ah ! it was the good old time 
Of the periwig sublime ; 
Lives the cockney who dares grudge 
One iota of its state, 
He deserves, as I adjudge, 
On his thick, plebeian pate 
Now and evermore, to wear 
Other ornament than hair. 
Century of mocking wood, 
Age of powder and of paste, 
He who does not find thee good, 



208 POEMS. 

Writes himself devoid of taste, 
Lacking sentiment, and stupid, 
Votary abhorred by Cupid. 
Rosy marble is't, not so ? 
Yet, despite myself, I trow 
Though here thy fate is fixed by chance, 
Other destiny was thine ; 
Far away from cloudy France, 
Where a warmer sun doth shine, 
Near some temple, Greek or Latin, 
The fair daughters of the clime 
With the scent of heath and thyme 
Clinging to their sandalled feet, 
Treading thee in rhythmic dance, 
Were a burden far more sweet 
Than court-ladies, shod with satin. 
Could it be for this alone 
Nature formed thee in the earth, 
In whose beauteous, virgin stone, 
Genius might have wrought a birth 
Every age had joyed to own ? 
When with trowel and with spade 
In this muddy, modern park 
Thou in solemn state wert laid, 
Then the outraged gods might mark 
What the times had brought about, 
Mansard, in his triumph, flout 
Praxiteles' injured shade ! 



POEMS. 209 

There should have come forth of thee 
Some new-born divinity. 
When the marble-cutters hewed 
Through thy noble block their way, 
They broke in, with footsteps rude, 
Where a Venus sleeping lay ; 
And the goddess' wounded veins 
Colored thee with roseate stains. 

Alas ! and must we count it truth 
That every rare and precious thing, 
Flung forth at random, without ruth, 
Trodden underfoot may lie ? 
The crag, where, in sublime repose, 
The eagle stoops to rest his wing, 
No less than any way-side rose 
Dropped in the common dust to die. > 
Can the mother of us all 
Leave her work, to fullness brought, 
Lost in the gulf of chance to fall, 
As oblivion swallows thought? 
Torn away from ocean's rim 
To be fashioned at a whim, 
Does the briny tempest hurl 
To the workman's feet, the pearl ? 
Shall the vulgar, idle crowd 
For all ages be allowed 
To degrade earth's choicest treasure, 
At the arbitrary pleasure 
Of a mason or a churl ? 
14 



ON THE DEATH OF MALIBRAN. 

OH Marie Felicia ! the painter and bard, 

Leave children immortal as heirs to their fame ; 

Their great, eager natures, from action debarred, 
Turn dauntlessly time and destruction to tame ; 

They perish as victors struck down in the fight, 

Not lost and forgotten in fathomless night. 

For one upon brass has engraven his thought ; 

Another has breathed it in musical rhyme ; 
We hear it and straightway to love him are taught ; 

And Raphael has left it on canvas sublime : 
That death all unharmed shall his memory keep 
It needs but a child, on his mother, asleep. 

As the lamp guards the flame, so the desolate halls 
Of the Parthenon guard, all undimmed and serene, 

The glory of Phidias shrined in their walls ; 
And Praxiteles' child, Aphrodite the queen, 

Erect in her beauty immortal, still smiles 

On the centuries vanquished and 'slaved by her wiles. 

To the Godhead returns all the glorious past, 
Upraised by each age to a loftier place ; 



POEMS. 211 

Thus the echoes of genius in unison vast 

Become the great voice of the whole human race ; 
But of thee, oh poor Marie ! just dead in thy bloom, 
Remains bi^t a cross, in a chapel's cold gloom. 

Night, silence, oblivion, a cross and no more ! 

Oh list ! 'tis the wind, 'tis the voice of the sea, 
'Tis a fisher who sings on his way by the shore, 

But of beauty, hope, promise, and fame, lavished 

free, 

Of that heavenly lyre's sweet, manifold strains, 
No lingering echo, no whisper remains. 



RECOLLECTION. 

I FEARED to suffer, though I hoped to weep 
In seeing thee again, thou hallowed ground, 
Where ever dear remembrance for her sleep 
A tomb has found. 

Friends, in this solitude what did you dread, 
Why did ye seek my footsteps to restrain, 
When sweet and ancient custom hither led 
My feet again ? 

Here are these haunts beloved, the flow'ry waste, 
The silvery foot-prints on the silent sand, 
The paths, where lost in love-talk sweet we paced, 
Hand locked in hand. 

Here are the pina-trees with their sombre green, 
The deep ravine, with rocky, winding ways, 
Lulled by whose ancient murmurs I have seen 
Such happy days. 

Here are the thickets, where my joyous youth 
Sings like a choir of birds in every tree ; 



POEMS. 213 

Sweet wilds, that saw my mistress pass, in sooth 
Looked ye for me ? 

Nay, let them flow, for they are precious tears, 
The tears that from a heart unhardened rise, 
Nor brush away this mist of by-gone years 
From off mine eyes ! 

I shall not wake with vain and bitter cry 
The echo of these woods, where I was blest ; 
Proud is the forest in its beauty high, 
Proud is my breast. 

Let him devote himself to endless woes 
Who kneels alone beside a loved one's tomb ; 
But here all breathes of life, the church-yard rose 
Here does not bloom. 

And lo ! the moon is rising through the shades ; 
Her glance still trembles, "beauteous queen of 

night ; " 

But all the dark horizon she pervades 
With growing light. 

As all the perfumes of the buried day 
Rise from this soil, still humid with the rain, 
So from my softened breast, beneath her ray, 
Rises my love again. 



214 POEMS. 

Whither have fled the griefs that made me old ? 
Vanished is all that vexed my life before, 
I grow, as I this friendly vale behold, 
A child once more. 

Oh fatal power of time ! oh fleeting hours ! 
Our tears, our cries, our vain regrets ye hush, 
But pity moves you, and our faded flowers 
Ye do not crush. 



ADVICE TO A GAY LADY. 

YES, were I a woman, charming and pretty, 

I think I should do, 

Fair Julia, as you ; 
Without fear or favor, distinction or pity, 

Smile and make eyes 

At all 'neath the skies. 

In all the earth's orbit, my elegant waist, 

And what I should wear, 

Should be my sole care ; 
The puppet of most irreproachable taste 

Abroad or at home, 

From Paris to Rome. 

I would seek as the only true science and lore 

That careless repose 

Which you wear like a rose, 
And to giddiness add as a grace the more 

That semblance of thought 

Which thinks about naught. 



216 POEMS. 

I would live in perpetual fete, and aspire 

To dazzle the brain 

Of even Disdain ; 
To be in one moment all ice and all fire, 

With smiles to conceal 

The hatred I feel. 

Moreover, I would above all things eschew 

That obsolete pink 

From which our eyes shrink ; 
Amid my brown locks I would gleam on the view 

Like a moonbeam white 

From the hood of night. 

How charming it is, and convenient besides, 
This indolent way. 
The style of the day, 

And the pallor which nothing or everything hides ; 
Never too far apart 
The face and the heart ! 

Your very caprice I would willingly share ; 

Your innocent sighs, 

Your experienced eyes ; 
I adore you to such a degree, that I swear 

I'd be wholly you 

For a year or two. 



POEMS. 21 

On one single point, I am forced to confess, 

Your habitual skill 

Seems to serve you but ill ; 
You cannot endure to occasion distress ; 

From your pride you'd be freed, 

But you want it, indeed. 

My statue-like arm I should scruple to yield 

To each and to all 

At rout and at ball ; 
Nor in the cotillion's promiscuous field, 

Resign my white hand 

At every demand. 

If I felt the clasp of a daring arm 

Too rashly braced 

Round my slender waist, 
I confess I should be in mortal alarm 

Lest my cobweb lace 

Should show its trace. 

Each partner in turn, o'er your shoulder white, 

Recites his part 

Of a broken heart ; 
If my dignity did not, my beauty might 

Resent being wooed 

In such careless mood. 



218 POEM*. 

No, if I were Julia, I would not see 

In my cherished beauty 

My only duty ; 
To the finger-tips I a duchess would be. 

And treasure my pride 

More than all beside. 

For, my dear, at the present day, you must know 

Most men that we find 

Have a roving mind. 
Of two lovers with ardent zeal all aglow 

With one half I fear 

It is pastime mere. 

And if you would flirt, you must also be wise ; 

The swallow of spring 

Who sleeps on the wing 
Is not like the pinion of alien skies, 

Which for farewell token 

Leaves a flow'ret broken. 



A PORTRAIT. 

YES, she was fair, if fair be hight 
That dumb, eternal, stony sleep, 

The sculptor's monumental Night 
Hides in her chapel's twilight deep. 

And she was good, if goodness be 
With passive hand to scatter gold, 

Though God the deed nor bless, nor see, 
Nor own as alms such bounty cold. 

She prayed indeed, if two dark eyes, 
Now bent on earth with pensive air, 

And now uplifted to the skies, 
If that alone be counted prayer. 

She would have wept, if the white palm 
That on her breast so coldly lay, 

Had ever felt the precious balm, 
The dew divine in human clay. 

She might have loved, perhaps, but pride, 
Like to the useless taper, placed 



220 POEMS. 

In funeral rites, the pall beside, 

Guarded her heart's hard, sterile, waste. 

She has not lived, and she is dead, 
She only lived to outward view, 

And from her fingers drops unread 
The book whose text she never knew. 



VERGISS MEIN NICHT. 

REMEMBER ! when the morn with sweet affright 
Opens her portals to the king of day ; 
Remember ! when the melancholy night 
All silver-veiled pursues her darkling way ; 
Or when thy pulses wake at pleasure's tone ; 
When twilight shades to gentle dreams invite, 
List to a voice which from the forest lone 
Murmurs, Remember ! 

Remember ! when inexorable fate 
Hath parted finally my lot from thine, 
When absence, grief, and time have laid their weight 
With crushing power on this heart of mine ; 
Think of my love, think of my last farewell, 
Absence nor time can constancy abate, 
While my heart beats its every throb shall tell 
Remember ! 

t 

Remember ! when beneath the chilling ground 
My weary heart has found a lasting sleep, 
And when in after time, above the mound, 
The pale blue flower its gentle watch doth keep ; 



222 POEMS. 

I shall not see thee more, but ever nigh, 
Like sister true my soul will hover round, 
List to a voice which through the night will sigh 
Remember ! 



PALE STAR OF EVEN. 

PALE star of even, on thy distant quest 

Lifting thy radiant brow from twilight's veil, 
From out thy azure palace in the west, 

What seest thou in the dale ? 
The storm recedes, the winds are lulled to rest, 

The shivering trees weep on the grass beneath, 
The evening butterfly, with gilded crest, 

Flits o'er the fragrant heath. 
What seekest thou on Nature's sleeping breast ? 

Down toward the mountains thou art sinking fast, 
Sinking and smiling, sweet and pensive guest : 

Thy tremulous gaze has almost looked its last. 

Sad, silvery tear on evening's mantle brown, 

Slow gliding downward to the verdant steep, 
The shepherd sees thee, as across the down 

He homeward leads his lingering flock of sheep. 
Star, at this silent hour so strangely fair, 

Through boundless night, oh, whither dost thou go ? 
To seek beside the shore a reedy lair, 

Or like a pearl, sink in the gulf below ? 



224 POEMS. 

Oh if thy glowing tresses thou must wet 
In ocean's brine, fair star, if thou must die, 

Ere thou forsake us, stay a moment yet ; 

Sweet star of love ! ah, do not leave the sky ! 



A LAST WORD. 

THING of a day ! Fret out thy little hour ; 

Whence thy unceasing plaint, thy bitter cry ? 
And why in tears consume thy spirit's pow'r ? 

Immortal is thy soul, thy tears will dry. 

Thy heart is racked and wrung by love betrayed, 
Beneath the strain 'twill break, or cease to feel ; 

Thou prayest God to hasten to thine aid ; 
Immortal is thy soul, thy heart will heal. 

By longing and regret thy life is torn, 

The past shuts out the future from thine eye ; 

Grieve not for yesterday, await the morn ; 
Immortal is thy soul, time passes by. 

Thy form is bent beneath oppressive thought, 
Thy brow is burdened, and thy limbs give way ; 

Oh bow the knee ! fall prostrate, thing of naught ! 
Immortal is thy soul, death frees thy clay. 

Thy mouldering form its mother-earth will feed, 
Thy glory, name, and memory must die, 

But not thy love, if thou hast loved indeed. 
Thy deathless soul will cherish it on high. 
15 



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This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 







KfOOMJW 



JUN 041 

U, UKT) LDJURD R.FC'D LWJRL 



wt 

OCT19BB 



LDTURL 



126 



47584 




3 1158 00629 1107 



UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 




AA 000446915 



